INCLUDING  HORACE 


INCLUDING  HORACE 


BY 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Author  of   "  These   Times," 
" and  Other  Poets,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,   BRACE   AND   HOWE 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,    1919,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE  AND   HOWE,    INC. 


U 


THE  QUINN  &  BODEN    COMPANY 
RAHWAY.    N.   J. 


TO 

H.  L.  MENCKEN 

MORE  IN  SORROW  THAN  IN  ANGER 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION     ...  .  xi 

"INTEGER  VITM" 
As  it  might  have  been  translated  by 

ROBERT    BRIDGES 3 

ROBERT    HERRICK 5 

ROBERT    BROWNING 7 

SAMUEL  T.   COLERIDGE II   A 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 13 

A.    C.    SWINBURNE 14  X 

HEINRICH   HEINE 15 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI    AND    OSCAR    WILDE          .  1 6  ^ 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 17 

C.   S.   CALVERLEY IQ 

AUSTIN     DOBSON 21 

WALT    WHITMAN 22 

J.   M.   SYNGE         ......  .24 

JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 25 

GUY   WETMORE   CARRYL 27 

W.    H,   DAVIES 29 

ROBERT     FROST     3O 

CARL    SANDBURG 32 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 34 

AMY  LOWELL 3^ 

THE   IMAGISTS 3& 

CONRAD  AIKEN  AND  T.  S.  ELIOT          ....  40 

FRANKLIN    P.    ADAMS 42 

IRVING  BERLIN 44    j 

vii 


viii  Contents 

PAGE 

OTHER  ODES 

"  ON  WITH  THE  DANCE  !  " 49 

"  TEARS,   IDLE  TEARS  " 50 

GROWING  OLD  DISGRACEFULLY 

B.C.  35 .52 

A.D.   1919   -                     53 

THE  TEASING  OF  XANTHIAS 54 

A  HAPPY  ENDING 56 

A  LINGERING  ADIEU  . 58 

IT  ALWAYS  HAPPENS 60 

A  STRAIGHT  TIP  TO  ALBIUS 62 

BARINE,  THE  INCORRIGIBLE 64 

HORACE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 66 

A  GRACEFUL  EVASION 68 

TO  CHLOE 70 

TO  CHLOE  AGAIN 71 

"  THE  FEMALE  OF  THE  SPECIES  "  ....  72 

QUESTIONING  LYDIA 73 

ETUDE  ON  THE  SAME  THEME 74 

THE  PASSING  OF  LYDIA 76 

REVENGE!           78 

BY  WAY  OF  PERSUASION 80 

MEASURE   FOR    MEASURE 82 

"  HE  WHO  LAUGHS  LAST — " 83 

TO   PYRRHA 84 

THE    FICKLE   LYDIA 85 

A  BURLESQUE  RONDO            ......  87 

AN   APPEAL 88 

ODE  AGAINST  ANGER 89 


Contents  ix 

FACE 

MUTINY 91 

HOLIDAY 93 

TO  A  FAUN 94 

AFTERMATH 96 

RAILING   AT   ICCIUS 98 

PANTOUM    OF    PROCRASTINATION       ....  IOO 

HORACE    EXPLAINS IO2 

AN    INVITATION 1 04 

WINTER    PIECE IO6 

INVOCATION IO8 

THE  PINE  TREE  FOR  DIANA ICQ 

A  PLEASANT  VOYAGE  FOR  MAEVIUS   .          .          .  IIO 

SIMPLICITY 112 

VICTORIAN    SIMPLICITY 113 

NEAPOLITAN  SIMPLICITY 114    f 

SEDITIOUS  SONG  AGAINST  PROHIBITION    .          .          .  1 15 
HORACE,    TEMPERANCE    ADVOCATE    .          .          .          .117 

TRITE  TRIOLETS 119 

ON  PRIDE,   POSITION,  POWER,   ETC I2O 

THE   GOLDEN    MEAN 122 

CIVIL  WAR 123 

LUGUBRIOUS  VILLANELLE  OF  PLATITUDES         .          .125 

AN   INFAMOUS   RENDERING 127 

PROLOG  IN   THE  APPROVED   MANNER         .          .          .  129 

SPRING    SUMMONS 131 

THE    MODEST    HOST 133 

THE  WARRIOR  RETURNS 134 

THE  TOAST 136 

CLEOPATRA'S  DEATH 138 

THE  GHOST  OF  ARCHYTAS I4O 


Contents 


TO    VIRGIL 


PAGE 


TO  THE  (ROMAN)  SHIP  OF  STATE  .       .       .       .     143 
TO  MERCURY 


TO  VENUS     ........          .149 

TO    HIS    LYRE       ........       I^o 

TO  APOLLO    .........       j^2 

A  COMPLACENT  RONDEAU  REDOUBLE         .          .          .154 
HALF  IN  EARNEST        .......       156 

"l  CELEBRATE  MYSELF"    .....     ,     .       157 

INDEX  OF  ODES    ........       159 


INTRODUCTION 


QUINTUS  HORATIUS  FLACCUS,  popularly  known  as 
Horace,  was  born  in  Venusia,  a  town  on  the  eastern 
slope  of  the  Apennines,  about  sixty-five  years  before 
the  Christian  era.  He  lived  fifty-seven  years,  and 
lived  most  of  them  fully,  almost  riotously.  He  was 
very  much  the  product  of  his  age;  in  thought  he  was 
neither  ahead  of  it  nor  behind  it.  When  he  was  not 
consulting  doctors  or  reading,  he  was  fighting  under 
Brutus  against  his  future  patron ;  carrying  on  a  mul 
tiplicity  of  amours;  indulging  in  a  variety  of  wines; 
suffering  horribly  in  consequence ;  taking  the  warm 
baths  at  Baiae  and  the  cold  ones  at  Clusium  for  his 
invalidism ;  forgetting  caution  and  eating  rich  and 
almost  fatal  food  with  the  Roman  elite;  listening  half- 
credulous  to  the  fortune-tellers  at  the  Circus ;  playing 
a  game  of  ball  with  Maecenas ;  and  retiring  now  and 
then  as  a . "  gentleman-farmer  "  to  his  retreat  in  the 
Sabine  hills. 

There  were,  of  course,  other  distractions,  but,  ex 
cept  for  one  thing,  he  occupied  himself  very  much  as 
would  any  person  of  the  comfortable  middle-class  of 
his  time — or  of  ours.  In  those  crowded  fifty-seven 

xi 


xii  Introduction 

years,  whenever  he  was  free  from  more  fascinating 
diversions,  he  was  a  poet.  And  as  a  poet  he  com 
posed  vividly  patriotic  occasional  odes,  lively  satires, 
charming  and  unforgettable  vers  de  socictc,  and  some 
of  the  dullest  philosophical  poems  ever  written  by  a 
genuine  poet. 

Ever  since  Davidson  published  his  translations  in 
1711,  an  entire  literature  has  grown  up  around 
Horace,  so  great  that  the  poet  himself  has  been  al 
most  obscured.  Practically  every  editor  has  sent 
forth  the  Odes  and  Satires  with  a  mass  of  erudite 
notes,  of  variorum  readings,  of  grammatical  and  tech 
nical  criticisms,  of  dissertations  on  the  metrical  intrica 
cies — a  collection  so  weighty  that  it  made  Horace 
seem  the  pedantic  and  hair-splitting  technician  that 
every  freshman  suspects  him  of  being.  One  comes, 
with  surprise  and  gratification,  upon  such  a  fresh 
and  energetic  work  as  E.  C.  Wickham's  "  Horace  for 
English  Readers "  (published  at  The  Clarendon 
Press),  in  which  Dr.  Wickham  treats  Horace  as  an 
old  friend  instead  of  an  old  classic.  In  these  almost 
casual  prose  versions  the  spontaneity  and  light-heart- 
edness  of  Horace's  finest  examples  are  preserved. 
And,  to  acknowledge  the  debt  more  directly,  it  is  to 
this  volume  in  particular  that  the  present  paraphraser 
has  turned  whenever  his  small  and  sketchy  stock  of 
Latin  has  failed  him. 

Examine,  for  instance,  Horace's  love-poetry.  Most 
of  the  translators  have  regarded  Horace's  amorous 
persiflage  as  the  outpourings  of  an  intense  nature — • 


Introduction  xiii 

and  have  attempted  to  give  it  to  us  with  this  emphasis. 
Few  indeed  have  done  what  Wickham  has  accom 
plished  in  prose,  given  us  Horace  in  his  own  mood — 
light,  slyly  mocking,  petulant,  often  downright  flip 
pant.  In  spite  of  his  immortal  literary  harem,  his 
Lydias,  his  Chloes,  his  Pyrrhas,  his  Lalages,  there  is 
never  in  all  of  Horace's  erotic  rhymes  the  note  of 
genuine  passion.  Unlike  a  poet  such  as  Catullus,  he 
never  lets  an  emotion  overmaster  or  even  control  him ; 
he  is  more  concerned  with  the  pleasantries,  the  disap 
pointments,  the  incidents  and  ornaments  of  love,  than 
with  love  itself.  His  attitude  is  almost  that  of  an 
amused  or  interested  spectator;  he  keeps  his  head;  a 
wave  of  passionate  joy  or  sweeping  bitterness  scarcely 
ever  engulfs  him. 

His  amatory  poetry  reflects  this:  it  is  always  ar 
tistic,  always  conscious.  It  is  the  love-poetry  of  a 
middle-aged  man ;  a  record  of  memories,  of  gentle 
railleries,  of  approaching  age  and  corresponding  back 
ward  glances.  The  note  is  always  that  of  sophistica 
tion.  It  is  never  an  outcry.  It  sings,  but  it  does  not 
surge;  it  delights,  but  it  never  thrills.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  the  technically  artificial  versions  of  Austin 
Dobson,  the  colloquial  adaptations  of  Eugene  and 
Roswell  M.  Field,  even  the  most  slangy  and  impudent 
burlesques  of  Franklin  P.  Adams  and  Bert  Leston 
Taylor  reveal  more  of  the  living  Horace  than  the 
meticulous  gravity  of  Professor  Conington  and  the 
precise  but  prosy  translations  of  Addison  and  Ros- 
common. 


xiv  Introduction 

Had  Horace  been  content  to  remain  the  poet  of 
ironical  and  generally  playful  verses,  exquisite  in  form 
rather  than  in  substance,  the  world  would  have  lost 
some  of  the  most  dignified  and  illuminating  records 
of  Roman  life  that  have  ever  been  written;  records 
that,  in  the  satires,  rise  to  eloquent  heights.  It  would 
also  have  lost,  as  hinted  before,  the  platitudinous  and 
vague  philosophical  ramblings  that  mar  much  of  his 
otherwise  inimitable  work.  If  the  form  and  diction 
of  the  often  quoted  odes  to  Postumus,  to  Sallust,  to 
Grosphus,  to  Leuconoe,  were  not  so  perfect,  we  should 
almost  wish  that  Horace  had  never  taken  the  time  to 
write  them.  They  are  full  of  an  empty  didacticism 
that  must  have  been  hackneyed  long  before  Solomon 
wrote  the  Proverbs.  Robbed  of  the  glamour  of  the 
verse  and  boiled  down  to  its  essentials,  Horace's 
philosophy  is  as  commonplace  as  it  is  reiterative.  He 
cannot,  it  seems,  get  over  the  fact  that  life  is  a  fragile 
thing  and  that  we  all  must  die. 

Over  and  over  again  he  tells  us  to  enjoy  the  pres 
ent  and  distrust  tomorrow.  "  The  years  slip  by,"  he 
exclaims ;  and,  impressed  with  the  profundity  of  this 
thought,  repeats  it  at  every  opportunity.  What  are 
his  words  on  wealth  ?  "  All  the  gold  in  the  world 
cannot  keep  you  from  dying."  Likewise,  "  It  is 
wrong  to  hoard  money,"  and  "  The  man  who  is  happy 
is  better  than  a  king."  His  views  on  friendship? 
"  Friendship  is  a  boon ;  it  is  more  noble  than  love. 
Fill  the  waiting  goblet  ere  death  overtake  us."  Love? 
"A  silly,  childish  game;  changeable  as  the  weather; 


Introduction  xv 

war  one  moment,  peace  the  next.  It  is  beyond  all  rea 
son  or  regulation/'  Enjoyment?  "Pile  on  the 
fagots  and  bring  forth  the  mellowed  wine ;  leave  all 
else  to  the  gods.  Life  is  perilous  and  hard  for  those 
who  do  not  drink.  Be  temperate,  however,  in  your 
use  of  liquors;  thirst  turns  bitter  if  indulged  without 
restraint,  and  the  man  who  cannot  control  himself  is 
little  better  than  a  beast,"  etc.,  etc.  ...  It  is  the 
taking  of  such  banalities  seriously  that  robs  the  trans 
lations  of  even  so  keen  a  humorist  as  Calverley  of 
their  otherwise  noteworthy  merit,  and  makes  the  ver 
sions  of  lesser  adapters  both  prim  and  pitiful.  Noth 
ing  could  be  flatter  and  more  vapid  than  many  of 
these  inconsequential  thoughts — unless  it  is  the  flat 
and  vacuous  reproductions  of  those  translators,  fever 
ishly  intent  upon  revealing  "  every  shade  of  Horace's 
philosophic  searchings." 

But,  though  most  of  his  odes  and  epodes  present 
Horace  with  all  his  shortcomings  as  a  lover  and 
thinker,  they  (as  well  as  the  longer  and  less  popular 
works)  show  him  to  be  the  most  gifted  and  spontane 
ous  writer  of  occasional  poetry  in  classic  or,  for  that 
matter,  all  literature.  The  thinness  of  thought  and 
mere  graces  of  writing  disappear  whenever  he  turns 
to  civic  or  national  affairs,  to  chant  of  victories  or 
patrons,  to  stir  his  countrymen  to  loftier  aims — to 
become,  in  short,  not  so  much  the  poet  as  the  man. 

Whenever  Horace  forgot  that  he  was  "  a  high- 
priest  of  song,"  forgot  his  position  as  an  intimate 
"  friend  of  the  Muses,"  he  wrote  the  things  that  sur- 


xvi  Introduction 

pass  in  power  his  most  chiseled  lyrics.  He  was  a 
charming  versifier  every  time  he  wrote  a  single  line, 
but  a  great  poet  only  when  an  occasional  one.  There 
was  never  in  his  time  that  peculiar  apathy  to  this  sort 
of  verse  which  exists  at  present.  The  feeling  which 
has  inhibited  the  writer  of  "  occasional  verse  "  is  the 
result  of  a  strange  misunderstanding:  it  is  a  prejudice 
which  has  its  roots  not  so  much  in  a  dislike  as  an 
ignorance  of  the  thing  itself.  Occasional  poetry  is,  in 
the  best  sense,  a  truly  living  poetry,  because  in  it  the 
poet  must  celebrate  an  occasion  rather  than  an  abstrac 
tion.  It  is  the  picture  of  an  actual  thing  rather  than 
a  speculative  generality.  It  is  a  pulsating,  poetic 
microcosm ;  in  it  the  poet  must  synchronize  the 
thought,  the  temper,  and  the  atmosphere  of  his  times. 
Far  from  trivial,  it  makes  greater  demands  upon  the 
poet  than  almost  any  other  manner  or  theme.  It  is 
never,  as  so  many  suppose,  the  exercise  of  the  tyro ; 
it  is  the  test  of  the  master.  The  man  who  expresses 
it  fully,  expresses  not  only  his  age  as  seen  by  himself 
but  himself  as  seen  by  his  age.  Horace  did  this  un 
questionably.  The  picture  he  gives  of  his  period  and 
his  relation  to  it  could  not  be  equaled  by  a  dozen 
volumes  of  historical  data;  it  is  glowing  and  inter 
pretative — with  a  single  exception.  We  learn  from 
him  little  concerning  the  Woman  of  his  day. 

Horace  is  essentially  a  man's  poet,  just  as  he  was 
essentially  a  man's  man.  He  never  troubled  himself 
to  understand  women  in  any  other  than  a  physical 
way.  He  never  speaks  of  the  quality  of  their  minds 


Introduction  xvii 

but  always  of  the  qualities  of  their  bodies.  Their 
whiteness  or  redness,  their  arms  and  ankles,  their 
warmth  or  frigidity,  seem  to  be  the  only  things  about 
them  which  interested  him.  One  imagines  that  even 
a  loose-living  reprobate  of  a  bachelor,  such  as  Horace, 
must  have  known  something  more  compelling  in 
womankind  than  the  poet  saw  fit  to  chronicle.  He 
never  regarded  or  even  recognized  them  as  social 
beings.  They  were,  to  him,  so  many  "  types  " ;  he 
seems  never  to  have  observed  them  even  as  individual 
mentalities.  Once  in  a  while  he  mentions  the  lower 
class  of  women,  the  peasants,  the  farmers'  wives,  with 
a  grudging  sort  of  respect.  But  beyond  that  he  does 
not  exert  himself.  One  thinks  of  him,  after  many 
readings  of  his  works,  as  an  aesthetic  philanderer; 
his  attitude  toward  women  being  a  combination  of 
artistic  admiration,  playfulness,  and  uncomprehending 
ridicule. 

But  the  muse  that  prompted  the  Satires  and  Epistles 
— the  one  Horace  calls  his  "  Musa  pedestris,"  who 
went  humbly  on  foot  along  earthy  roads  instead  of 
soaring  about  Olympus — gave  him  a  far  more  serious 
and  deep-rooted  understanding  than  the  spirit  that 
prompted  his  other  verses.  These  satires  and  letters 
are  filled  with  a  speech  that  is  racy  and  casual. 
Horace  still  deals  with  his  favorite  topics :  the  wisdom 
of  enjoying  rather  than  desiring,  the  folly  of  hoard 
ing,  the  shortness  of  life,  the  perplexity  of  religious 
beliefs.  But  there  is  more  of  the  man  in  these  lines ; 
they  are  keener,  warmer,  more  a  result  of  feeling 


xviii  Introduction 

than  of  thinking.  Often  they  take  the  flavor  of 
causeries — so  unrhetorical  and  vivid  are  his  pungent 
ironies,  his  revealing  bits  of  gossip. 

It  is  these  qualities  as  well  as  the  poems  written  dur 
ing  his  "  laureateship "  which  make  him  something 
more  than  a  dextrous  writer  of  immortal  light  verse. 
All  in  all  his  work,  with  its  varying  temper  and  its 
various  influences,  gives  us  his  picture  ineradicably. 
A  keen  observer,  a  commonplace  philosopher,  a  crafts 
man  with  a  technique  at  his  finger  tips,  a  frank  and 
full-blooded  man — good-humored,  carnal,  something 
of  the  mocker,  something  of  the  priest.  A  curious 
blend,  if  one  can  picture  it,  of  Austin  Dobson,  Hein- 
rich  Heine,  and  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

ii 

The  present  volume  is  an  effort  to  do  two  things: 
First,  to  suggest,  through  the  thin  veil  of  parody,  how 
certain  other  poets  would  have  used  Horatian  sub 
jects — and  one  famous  theme  in  particular.  Second, 
to  present,  in  a  loose  set  of  paraphrases,  the  spirit 
rather  than  the  letter  of  most  of  Horace's  finest  odes. 
A  few  of  these  renderings  are  almost  literal  trans 
lations,  approximating,  as  far  as  the  language  will 
permit,  the  meters  of  the  original ;  a  few  verge  peril 
ously  on  and  even  descend  into  burlesque.  But  the 
majority  of  the  poems  contained  in  the  second  part 
are  light-hearted  versions  that,  in  their  very  fragility 
and  varying  verse-structure,  attempt  to  reflect  the 
grace  and  vivacity  of  the  sparkling  originals.  I  have 


Introduction  xix 

not  even  tried  (with  two  or  three  exceptions)  to 
surmount  the  insuperable  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
bringing  over  the  Latin  verse-forms  intact  into  Eng 
lish  poetry.  We  have  no  natural  counterparts  for  the 
Alcaiacs  and  Asclepiads  so  freely  used  by  Horace. 
And  although  John  Conington's  amazingly  precise 
measures  and  Warren  Cudworth's  strophe-for-strophe 
versions  are  gallant  attempts,  for  which  every  student 
must  be  grateful,  they  remain  among  those  works  that 
have  dared  without  attaining  the  impossible. 

It  should  also  be  said  that  the  opinions  expressed 
in  this  introductory  note  are  personal  rather  than 
pedagogic.  There  have  been  many  and  striking  dif 
ferences.  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  ("Q"),  for  one, 
flatly  disagrees  with  a  great  part  of  the  foregoing  esti 
mate  of  Horace's  work.  He  believes  that  Horace's 
secret  is  buried  in  the  Odes  and  "  most  defiant  of 
capture  there  " ;  the  Satires  having  been  imitated  suc 
cessfully  by  Cowper,  Dryden,  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and 
others.  In  the  Odes,  "Q"  maintains,  "lies  that 
witchery  of  style  which,  the  moment  you  lose  grasp 
of  it,  is  dissipated  into  thin  air  and  eludes  your  con 
centrated  spirit." 

There  now  remains  nothing  but  to  acknowledge 
once  more  my  indebtedness  to  E.  C.  Wickham's 
lively  prose  renderings,  to  the  microscopic  eye  of 
Dudley  F.  Sicher,  without  whose  vigilance  this  vol 
ume  would  be  even  less  authoritative  than  it  is  now, 
and  to  The  Century,  The  New  Republic,  The  Smart 
Set,  Life,  Vanity  Fair,  The  New  York  Tribune,  and 


xx  Introduction 

The  New  York  Evening  Post  for  the  privilege  of 
reprinting  several  of  the  poems  that  are  here  collected. 
Two  of  these  verses  originally  appeared  in  a  previous 

volume  of  parodies  (" and  Other  Poets")  and 

the  author  thanks  Henry  Holt  and  Company  for  per 
mission  to  reprint  them  in  their  present  setting. 

L.  U. 
NEW  YORK,  July,  1919. 


"  INTEGER  VITAE  " 
(TWENTY-FOUR  VERSIONS) 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 

TRANSLATES  IT  IN   ITS  OWN   CLASSIC   MEASURES 

Integer  vitae,  scelerisque  purus, 

non   eget  Mauris   iaculis   .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  22 

He  who  has  lived  a  blameless  life  and  pure  one 
Needs  naught  of  Moorish  bows  or  mighty  javelins, 
Needs  neither  armored  plates  nor  poisoned  arrows, 
Fuscus,  to  shield  him, 

Whether  he  roams  beside  the  shoals  of  Libya, 
Or  through  the  barren  Caucasus  he  wanders — 
Even  in  lands  where,  glorious  in  fable, 
Rolls  the  Hydaspes   .    .    . 

Once  in  the  Sabine  woods  a  wolf  beheld  me 
Strolling  about  unarmed.     He  heard  me  singing, 
Singing  a  song  of  Lalage — and  sudden 
The  creature  vanished. 

Direst  of  monsters !     Such  a  savage  terror 
Lurks  not  within  the  deepest  woods  of  Daunia; 
Juba  itself,  the  land  that  fosters  lions, 
Breeds  naught  so  frightful. 

3 


Robert  Bridges 

Oh,  place  me  amid  icy  desolation, 
Where  not  a  tree  is  cheered  by  sunny  breezes, 
Where  Jove  himself  is  only  seen  in  sullen 
Sleet  and  gray  weather; 

Or  place  me  where  the  very  Sun's  great  chariot 
Drives  over  me  in  lands  that  burn  and  wither- 
Still  Lalage's  sweet  words  and  sweeter  laughter 
Always  shall  rouse  me. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

INCLUDES  IT   IN   ONE   OF   HIS   "  PIOUS   PIECES 

Fuscus,  dear  friend, 

I  prithee  lend 
An  ear  for  but  a  space, 

And  thou  shalt  see 

How  Love  may  be 
A  more  than  saving  grace. 


As  on  a  day 

I  chanced  to  stray 
Beyond  my  own  confines, 

Singing,  perdie, 

Of  Lalage, 
Whose  smile  no  star  outshines — 


So  'tranced  were  all 

Who  heard  me  call 
On  Love,  that  from  a  grot 

A  wolf  who  heard 

That  tender  word 
Listened  and  harmed  me  not. 
5 


Robert  Herrick 

Thus  shielded  by 

The  magicry 
Of  Love  that  kept  me  pure, 

I  live  to  praise 

Her  wondrous  ways 
Where'er  I  may  endure. 

There's  but  one  plan: 

The  honest  man 
Wears  Vertue's  charmed  spell; 

And,  free  from  vice, 

That  man  lives  twice 
Who  lives  the  one  life  well. 


..OBERT  BROWNING 

ENLARGES   UPON   IT  IN   SEVERAL  OF   HIS  MANNERS 
AND   INTERPOLATES   A   LYRIC 


This  is  the  tale: 

Friend,  you  shall  know  the  right  and  the  wrong  of  it. 

Listen,  before  old  Sirius  grows  pale 

And  the  tang  leaves  the  ale — 

For,  saith  the  poet,  all  things  have  an  end, 

Even  beauty  must  fail, 

The  rapture  and  song  of  it. 

Here,  to  be  brief,  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it-^ 

Listen,  my  friend. 

II 

Virtue,  I  hold,  is  the  raiment  to  travel  in. 
Fuscus,  my  friend,  if  you're  swaddled  in  virtue, 
Never  a  spear-head,  a  sword  or  a  javelin, 
No,  not  an  arrow  that's  poisoned  can  hurt  you. 
Virtue  is  more  than  a  shield  or  a  stirrup; 
Virtue's  the  charm — it  will  shock  sloth  and  rasp  ease, 
Even  in  lands  where  the  lazy  Hydaspes 

7 


8  Robert  Browning 

Ambles  along  like  a  curious  syrup; 
Aye,  and  in  climes  where  the  voice  is  as  raucous  as 
Winds  in  the  barren  and  harborless  Caucasus. 
Fuscus,  the  man  who  is  guiltless  is  fearless ; 
He's  of  the  chosen,  the  purple,  the  peerless — 
What  does  he  care  for  a  frown  more,  a  cheer  less? 
Bearing  the  falchion  of  Truth — 

But  I  bore  you. 
Plague  take  all  pedantry.     Learning,  what  stuff  is 

it  ... 

Weighty  and  erudite  preambles — Sufficit! 
Here,  you  shall  have  only  facts  set  before  you, 
Told  in  my  harsh  but  imperative  accents. 
(Music  in  which  the  musician  must  pack  sense 
Cannot  be  sensuous  with  every  syllable) 
But — here's  the  tale,  though  as  teller  I'm  ill  able 
(Would  I  were  worthy!)  to  render  the  glories 
Of  my  adventure — how  goes  it?  .    .    .   O  mores! 
I  tell  it  in  rhyme  like  an  intricate  minuet 
To  caution  the  soul  that,  I  warrant,  is  in  you  yet; 
Didactic  with  hoping — why  should  I  deny  it — 
You'll  guess  at  the  moral  and,  what's  more,  apply  it! 

in 

One  day  I  went  wandering  casually; 

The  sky  was  a  deep  lapis  lazuli; 

The  poplars  were  rustling  with  merriment, 

As  half  in  a  burst,  half  experiment, 

I  sang,  without  fear  or  apology, 

Of  honor,  of  love — and  of  Lalage. 


Robert  Browning  9 

And  yet,  'neath  the  ballad's  urbanity 
Was  an  echo  of  Life  and  its  vanity. 
The  fabric  of  living,  how  sheer  k  is, 
How  fragile  .  .  .  The  song — eh?  Well,  here  it  is. 


What's  love  that  you  should  ask 
How  long  Life's  sands  zvill  run  — 

See  hozv  the  butterflies  bask 
On  the  crocus  lips  i'  the  sun. 

Theirs  is  no  mighty  task   .    .'  . 
And  yet  who'  Id  say  ill-done? 

The  years  glide  swiftly  by. 

How  swiftly,  no  one  knows; 
The  drainers  and  dancers  will  lie 

F  the  long,  stark  night  'neath  the  snows. 
The  clay  outlives  the  cry; 

The  thorn  survives  the  rose. 


Love,  even  as  we  stay, 

Age  subtly  strokes  thy  cheek. 
Let  us  snatch  Time's  sleeve  while  we  may, 

Ere  the  heart  with  the  hand  grows  weak. 
Come,  let  us  live  to-day  — 

What's  life  but  loving  .    .   .  Speak! 

*FideKook  I:  Ode  n. 


io  Robert  Browning 


Well,  as  I  sang,  thinking  no  whit  of  harm, 

I  walked  along,  when  .    .    .  zooks,  before  me  sprang 

A  wolf,  a  monster  with  a  head  like  Death's, 

As — how  d'ye  call — Apulia  does  not  rear, 

Or  Juba,  land  that's  nursing-mother  to  lions, 

Never  gave  birth  to.     How  my  heart  flew  up! 

Gr-r-r-r  he  stood  growling  in  my  very  path. 

Flesh  and  blood — that's  all  I'm  made  of,  friend. 

What  to  do  ?    Fly  at  his  face  ?    Turn  tail 

And  run  as  fast  as  legs  could  carry  me? 

Thus,  craving  your  pardon,  sir,  might  you  have  done. 

Not  I   ...   My  mind  was  set,  my  conscience  clear; 

I  faltered  not  and  kept  on  with  my  song. 

With  that  the  beast  retreats,  gives  way,  runs  off — 

And  I  am  left  alone,  unscratched,  unscathed; 

A  victor  without  arms,  a  conqueror  without  strife. 

(There's  thought  for  you  in  this,  and  moral  too.) 

And  so  all's  right  with  me,  and  so  I  go 

Singing  of  Lalage  in  every  place — 

Spring,  summer,  winter,  autumn — what's  the  odds; 

Lalage,  her  sweet  prattle,  sweeter  laughter   .    .    . 

Believe  it,  Fuscus,  to  the  righteous  man 

There's  no  hurt  in  this  world  but  love  and  song 

Can  draw  the  sting  and  leave  all  sound  again. 

Now,  let  us  understand  the  matter,  sift  the  thing. 

Here,  in  a  nutshell,  is  the  crux  of  it : 

Old  Euclid  teaches — ha!  d'ye  note  the  dawn! — 

That — What?     Must  you  be  going? 

Well,  good-night  .    .    . 


SAMUEL  T.  COLERIDGE 

LETS  THE  ANCIENT   MARINER   PARAPHRASE  IT 


Horace 
meeteth  a 
friend   and 
detaineth 
him  with 
advice. 


He  liveth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  virtues  great  and  small, 

And  neither  knife  nor  heavy  strife 
Shall  make  him  fear  at  all. 


And  telleth 
how   the   man 
that  is  clear 
of  conscience 
goeth   fully 
armed. 


He  relateth 
a  tale  of 
a  wondrous 
escape. 


How  the 
wolf  appeared 
to  him  and 
what  ensued. 


Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

In  lonely  lands  though  he  may  be, 
He  shall  not  lift  his  voice  in  moan 
But  it  shall  have  a  pleasant  tone, 

Like  a  blessed  melody. 

0  listen  well  and  I  shall  tell 
The  reason  of  my  rime. 

Know  then,  while  walking  it  befell 

1  wandered  through  a  little  dell, 
Singing  away  the  time. 

When  huge  and  weird  a  wolf  appeared, 

The  while  my  singing  ceased; 
He  looked  me  up,  he  looked  me  down, 
And,  like  a  wave  of  living  brown, 
With  one  stride  came  the  beast. 


ii 


12 


How  that  his 
own  virtue 
made  manifest 
to  the  beast, 
did  save 
him. 


He  teacheth, 
by  his  own 
example,  love 
and  reverence 
for  all 
things. 


Samuel  T.  Coleridge 

Without  a  breath,  without  a  pause, 
I  sang  her  name  full  clear. 

And  seized  with  dread  the  monster  fled; 

He  saw  about  my  shining  head 
A  stronger  thing  than  fear  .    .    . 

He  liveth  best  who  loveth  best 

All  things,  below,  above. 
So,  Fuscus,  call,  the  first  of  all 

And  last  of  all,  on  Love! 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

SOLILOQUIZES    UPON   IT 

The  quality  of  virtue  is  not  strained; 
It  falleth  sweetly  on  the  upright  soul 
And  clothes  the  spirit  with  a  suit  of  mail. 
The  honest  man,  with  neither  bow  nor  shield, 
Envenomed   arrows,   daggers,   javelins, 
Can  stand  unarmed  against  a  sea  of  troubles 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them.     Whether  he  walk 
Beside  the  huge  and  multitudinous  waves, 
Or  through  unharbored  Caucasus  he  roam, 
Nothing  shall  lift  its  great,  abhorrent  head 
And  freeze  the  quivering  marrow  in  his  bones. 
There's  a  divinity  doth  hedge  a  man 
Who  feareth  naught,  rough-hew  him  how  you  will. 
Why,  I  have  seen  this  wonder  come  to  pass: 
As  I  went  singing  lately  through  a  wood, 
A  wolf  all  teeth,  a  wolf  of  savage  hate, 
A  wolf,  whose  every  movement  was  a  threat, 
Sprang  at  me  snarling,  like  the  winds  of  March. 
But  king-becoming  graces  soothe  the  beasts 
And  music  charms  them  with  her  silver  sound; 
So  on  I  went,  unchecked  by  groveling  fear. 
I  tell  thee,  Fuscus,  Life  is  but  a  plant; 
Honor  and  righteousness  its  sun  and  rain, 
And  Heaven  grants  such  precious  nourishment 
To  save  the  flower  from  the  canker,  Death. 
13 


A.  C.  SWINBURNE 

ALLITERATIVELY  REVOLVES   ALL   AROUND  IT 

No  murmurs,  no  moons  have  arisen; 

No  laughter  to  live  with  the  light, 
And  the  earth,  like  a  blind  thing  in  prison, 

Must  gnaw  through  the  nimbus  of  night. 
We  cry  and  we  quail  and  we  quiver, 

We  fly  from  the  fervors  of  Life — 
But  the  pure  and  the  passionate  liver 
Feareth  no  knife! 

The  heaven  is  hushed,  its  great  heart  aches, 

The  quiet  is  cruel  and  cold  ; 
Yet  somewhere  a  lyrical  star  takes 

My  longings  and  gives  them  its  gold. 
The  world  and  its  warring  may  rack  me, 

Its  sorrows  may  sting  like  a  thong — 
But  I  sing  and,  though  wolves  should  attack  me, 
I  thrill  with  my  song. 

For  Lalage's  lips  have  the  magic 

Of  rhyme  and  the  unravished  rose; 
And  the  terrible  times  are  not  tragic; 

I  am  brave  'neath  the  bitterest  blows. 
For  She  is  the  bountiful  bringer 

Of  joy  even  brighter  than  pain — 
And,  blessed  or  damned,  I  shall  sing  her 
Again  and  again! 
14 


HEINRICH  HEINE 

TRANSLATES  IT   INTO   GERMAN,    AFTER   WHICH   IT  IS 
"  ENGLISHED  "    BY   JOHN    TODHUNTER 

Good  lives  are  like  an  arrow, 
So  straight  and  clean  and  pure; 

The  thought  of  them  will  gladden 
And  move  the  heart,  I'm  sure. 

From  out  the  songs  I  fashion 

There  comes  a  strength  so  grand, 

That  wolves  and  all  things  evil 
Its  power  cannot  withstand. 

Where'er  I  go  it  follows, 

Like  to  the  moon  above; 
And  fills  all  the  earth  and  heavens 

With  love  and  the  light  thereof. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  &  OSCAR  WILDE 

BEGIN   A   BALLAD   ON    IT 

The  wind  is  weary,  the  world  is  wan; 

(Oh,  lone,  lank  lilies  and  long,  lean  loves) 
My  shield  is  shed,  my  armor  is  gone, 
And  Virtue  is  all  I  depend  upon. 
(My  lily, 

My  lissome  lily,  my  languid  love.) 

Full  thirteen  days  have  I  walked  with  woe, 

(Oh  dear,  dead  days  and  divine  desires) 
And  wolves  may  follow  where'er  I  go, 
But  nothing  shall  stop  my  song's  sweet  flow. 

(My  my, 
My  love,  my  delirious,  dark  desire.) 

The  night  is   old  and  threadbare   and  thin, 

(Oh  limpid  lily,   oh  labial  love) 
And  at  this  point   I   shall   straightway  begin 
Repeating  the  Ballad  ad  lib.,  ad  infin.  .   ,    . 
(My  lily, 

My  lilting,  loquacious,  repetitive  love.) 


16 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

FINDS  IT  FULL  OF  LUNAR  POSSIBILITIES 

It  was  midnight,  the  month  was  November; 

The  skies,  they  were  cheerless  and  cold, 

The  forest  was  trembling  and  old; 
And  my  heart  it  was  grey,  I  remember, 

As  I  walked  through  the  hyaline  wold. 
The  moon  was  a  perishing  ember, 

The  heavens  were  ashen  and  cold. 

It  was  midnight,  and  so  to  restore  me 
To  laughter  and  solace  from  pain, 

I  sang  and  the  melody  bore  me 
To  Israfel's  bosom  again, 
To  the  regions  enchanted  again ; 

I  felt  the  dim  Beauty  flow  o'er  me, 
The  fever  of  living  seemed  vain, 
And  Death  but  a  shadow  of  pain. 

And  I  sang,  though  a  wolf  stood  before  me. 

I  sang  of  the  terrors  titanic, 

Of  ghouls  and  the  breath  of  the  tomb, 
Of  scoriae  floods  and  volcanic, 
Of  Helen,  Lenore,  Ulalume, 
Of  devils  from  hell  free, 
Of  bells  in  the  belfry, 
17 


1 8  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Of  the  banging  and  the  clanging  as  they  boom, 
boom,  boom,  boom,  boom,  boom,  boom. 

I  sang  of  these  things,  and  in  panic 
The  wolf  disappeared  in  the  gloom — 

He  left  me  alone  in  the  gloom. 

But  Lalage's  eyes  I  remember; 

I  shall  dream  of  them  till  I  grow  old, 
When  Lenore  and  Ligeia  are  cold. 

They  are  with  me  in  June  and  September, 

October,  November,  December, — 

Though  the  skies  may  be  barren  and  old, 
And  the  forest  is  nothing  but  mold ; 

Though  the  moon  is  a  perishing  ember, 
And  the  heavens  are  ashen  and  cold. 


C.  S.  CALVERLEY 

TRIES   IT   IN    A    NEW   METER 

The  man  who's  had  a  blameless  life 

Never  needs  armor, 
Nor  Moorish  spear  nor  two-edged  knife; 

Nothing  will  harm  or 
Impede  his  progress  in  the  land 
Of  Caucasus  or  Libya;  and 
Though  others'  joys  be  sweetly  planned 
His  will  be  far  more. 

Once,  I  recall,  as  through  a  wood 

Where  fancy  led  me, 
I  sang  of  Lalage  (too  good 

And  fair  to  wed  me), 
A  wolf  that  happened  to  appear, 
Stopped  as  he  saw  me  passing  near 
And,  half  in  wonder,  half  in  fear, 

Abashed,  he  fled  me. 
***** 
Still  will  I  sing  of  her,  although 

I  dwell  forever 

In  barren  lands  'mid  ice  and  snow, 
Or  those  where  never 
19 


2O  C.  S.  Calverley 

The  kindly  shade  and  shelter  are 
Beneath  Apollo's  flaming  car. 
She  still  will  be  the  guiding  star 
Of  my  endeavor. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

BUILDS   A   RONDEAU   AROUND  IT 

An  upright  man  need  never  dread 
The  blows  of  Fate ;  he  who  has  led 
A  blameless  life  is  safer  far 
Than  kings  in  frowning  castles  are, 
For  he  is  armed  with  Truth  instead. 

Once,  as  I  roamed  with  careless  tread, 
A  wolf  who  heard  me  turned  and  fled. 
He  felt  that  I  was,  more  than  czar, 
An  upright  man. 

So  when  the  last  refrain  is  said 
Above  my  narrow,  rose-strewn  bed, 

Say  not,  "  He  worshiped  flower  and  star." 
Say  not,  "  He  loved  sans  let  or  bar." 
But  write  these  words  above  my  head: 
"An  Upright  Man." 


21 


WALT  WHITMAN 

RHAPSODIZES   ABOUT  IT 

I  sing  the  conscience  triumphant, 

I  celebrate  the  body  invulnerable. 

The  firm  tread,  the  square  jaw,  the  unflinching  eye, 
the  resolute  voice, 

Mind  equal  with  matter,  I  chant. 

I  see  the  Roman  singer  standing  erect, 

His  figure  rises 

Masculine,  haughty,  na'if ; 

He  confronts  and  answers  me. 

Me,  spontaneous,  imperturbe, 

Loafing,  swaggering,  at  ease  with  Nature, 

Passive,  receptive,  gross,  immoderate,  fit, 

Broad-shouldered  and  ripe,  a  good  feeder,  weight 
one  hundred  and  eighty-seven  pounds,  warm 
blooded,  forty-two  inches  around  the  breast 
and  back,  voluptuous,  combative,  vulgar, 

Bearded,  continental,  prophetic; 

Understander  of  beasts  and  scholars,  meeting  children 
and  Presidents  on  equal  terms. 

I  hail  him  with  the  others. 

He,  walking  about  unarmed  and  care-free, 

Pleased  with  all  countries,  climates,  conditions, 

Pleased  with  bleak  Caucasus,  sultry  Syrtes,  the  woods 
of  Daunia, 

22 


Walt  Whitman  23 

Pleased  with  all  seasons,  fortunes,  women,  the  native 
as  well  as  the  foreign ; 

Fearing  no  thing,  hating  no  thing, 

Upright  in  life,  of  conduct  clean; 

A  lover,  caresser  of  life,  prodigal,  inclusive, 

Him  I  hail  without  effuse  or  argument. 

I  accept  him,  do  not  scrape  or  salaam, 

Knowing  him  to  be  made  of  the  right  stuff, 

No  perfumed  dilettante,  no  dainty  affetuoso, 

But  a  man, 

Upright,  solemn,  desperate,  yearning,  puzzled,  turbu 
lent,  sound, 

Loved  by  men,  misunderstood  by  men, 

Going  on,  fulfilling  the  hopes  of  a  great  rapport. 

Libertad! — the  divine  average! — the  rich  melange! — 

On  the  wasted  plain,  the  dark-lipped  sea,  the  hottest 
noon,  the  bitterest  twelfth-month 

Solitary,  singing,  I  strike  up  and  declare  for  these. 


J.  M.  SYNGE 

PUTS  IT  INTO  THE  IDIOM   OF  THE  ARRAN   ISLANDS 

And  it's  himself  that  should  have  no  call  to  be  fear 
ing  hard  words  or  bitter  blows  or  evil  gossip  or  to  be 
destroyed  by  the  blow  of  a  loy,  itself — he,  after  living 
a  good  life  and  a  fine  one.  Many's  the  night  I  have 
walked  whistling  along  a  twisty  road  with  no  light 
ahead  and  no  light  behind,  and  only  a  slip  of  a  moon, 
like  the  youngest  of  the  angels,  timid  and  bobbing 
before  me.  And  sometimes,  maybe,  it  would  be  in  a 
wood  I'd  find  myself,  fearing  no  wolves  or  any  living 
thing  at  all,  but  would  be  after  dreaming  of  grand 
evenings  in  houses  of  gold  or  be  listening  to  the  young 
girls  and  young  men  making  mighty  talk.  And 
there'd  be  little  stirring  but  the  sound  of  laughter  far 
off — and  I  lifting  my  voice  in  lonely  song.  Ah,  it's 
a  great  blessing,  I'm  saying,  to  be  pure  of  heart  and 
to  have  the  sweetness  of  youth  and  the  lonely  wis 
dom  of  the  old.  And  it's  a  better  thing,  I'm  thinking, 
to  have  the  grand  gift  of  song;  to  be  singing  even 
when  the  suns  of  June  do  be  broiling  or  the  bitter 
winds  do  be  blowing  on  me,  till  I'd  feel  my  blood 
stopping  like  a  small  stream  in  the  winter  nights.  For 
it's  the  singer  that's  young  and  wise,  and  the  sweet 
ness  of  all  the  ages  is  given  to  him,  surely. 

24 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

MAKES  AN  INDIANA  "  NEIGHBORLY  POEM  "  OUT  OF  IT 

I  ain't,  ner  don't  p'tend  to  be, 

Much  posted  on  philosofy, 

But  to  my  truly  rural  mind 

The  feller  that  is  good  an'  kind 

Ain't  worritin'  his  whole  life  through 

'Bout  what  the  worP  might  say  er  do. 

I  allus  argy  that  a  man 
That  lives  as  natchurl  as  he  can 
Is  jes'  as  safe  as  safe  can  be 
In  fur-off  lands  as  Zekesbury. 

Why,  onc't  I  kindo'  los'  my  way 
In  Mills's  woods,  but  I  wuz  gay 
An'  singin'-like,  when — Jeemses-whizz ! 
A  wolf  that  looked  like  he  ment  biz, 
Come  snarlin'  at  me   .    .    .  Wuz  I  skeered? 
I  kep'  right  on.     He  disappeared! 
An'  sence  that  day  my  doctern's  bin 
To  teach  all  you-uns  how  to  win 
The  goal  by  livin'  as  you  oughter. 
(A  Ho  osier-picture  here  by  Vawter). 
25 


26  James  Whit  comb  Riley 

I  ain't,  ner  don't  p'tend  to  be, 
Much  posted  on  philosofy, 
But  to  my  truly  rural  mind 
It  pays  to  jes'  be  good  an'  kind. 


GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL 

TURNS  IT  INTO  A   NEW  FABLE   FOR  THE   FRIVOLOUS 

Beneath   a  wood's   umbrageous   limbs, 
Where  leaves  and  beasts  aplenty  lay, 

A  Latin  bard  went  singing  hymns 
Of  where  festina  lente  lay. 

Unarmed,  unharmed  he  walked  along; 

His  ardor  and  his  voice  were  strong; 

And  all  the  forest  heard  his  song, 
His  dolce-far-niente-lzy. 

Gaily  he  sang  of  love — when  lo, 

A  savage  wolf  confronted  him; 
The  creature  looked  and  eyed  him  so, 

It  looked  as  if  it  wanted  him. 
But  Horace  (thus  he  leaped  to  Fame), 
Acting  as  though  the  beast  were  tame, 
Sang,  "  Nice  old  doggie.    What's  your  name  ?  " 
In  short,  it  never  daunted  him. 

And,  like  a  skilful  amateur, 

He  jumped  an  octave  tastily. 
The  wolf,  although  no  connoisseur, 

Went  off  a  little  space  till  he 
27 


28  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl 

Observed  that  Horace  loved  to  dwell 
On  all  the  trills  and  high-notes.    Well, 
The  beast  gave  one  reproachful  yell 
And  left  the  poet — hastily! 

THE  MORAL:  Every  student  will 
Applaud  the  beast  with  such  a  vim ; 
They  too  of  Horace  get  their  fill 
Instead  of  just  a  touch  of  him. 
The  wolf,  when  Horace  would  not  cease, 
Could  get  no  piece,  lean  or  obese — 
And  since  he  gave  the  wolf  no  peace, 
The  wolf  had  far  too  much  of  him! 


W.  H.  DAVIES 

MAKES    IT   SIMPLER   THAN    EVEF 

The  man  that's  good, 

He  never  has 
To  wear  a  hood 

Of  steel  or  brass. 

No  shield  he's  got, 
No  sword  or  gun; 

He's  safe  in  what 
He  may  have  on. 

A  friend  of  elves, 
He  tries  his  tunes 

On  shaggy  wolves 
And  burly  bruins. 

He  sings  an  air 

That's  old  and  sweet, 
And  ladies  fair 

Sit  at  his  feet. 

They  give  him  tea, 
They  bring  him  food. 

Who  would  not  be 
The  man  that's  good? 
29 


ROBERT  FROST 

TAKES    IT    UP    TO    NEW    HAMPSHIRE 

He  took  the  rifle  from  the  cupboard  shelf 
And,  having  oiled  the  catch  and  greased  the  barrel, 
He  put  it  back  again.    At  last  he  turned 
And  tried  the  window-locks,  and  stood  awhile 
Watching  the  snow  pile  hummocks  on  itself 
Where  there  was  scarcely  any  need  for  mounds, 
And  lay  fresh  sheets  above  the  piece  of  ground, 
Such  as  it  was,  that  soon  would  be  his  bed. 
Something,  somebody's  saying,  half  a  phrase 
Kept  him  there  standing  at  the  kitchen  door. 
It  almost  came,  escaped  him,  and  went  out 
Back  to  the  pine-trees  where  it  grew.    He  followed, 
Afraid  of  nothing  but  a  childish  fear 
Of  all  outdoors  that  made  him  hum  his  tune 
A  little  louder  than  he  meant  to  do. 
"  In  Amsterdam  there  lived  a  maid  " — and  so 
On  to  the  shameless  end  of  it;  at  least 
Nearly  the  end.     For,  toward  the  final  bars, 
Behind  the  witch-grass  and  hepaticas, 
A  great  white  wolf  appeared  as  suddenly 
As  though  the  snow  had  made  or  blown  him  there. 
He  thought  of  fairy-tales  he  had  forgotten 
And  what,  for  reasons,  he  could  not  forget 
30 


Robert  Frost  31 

Of  werewolves  and  the  time  he  had  run  off 

To  see  the  animals  in  Barnum's  circus. 

He  took  a  doubtful  step  and  then  undid  it 

To  gain  a  minute's  time ;  thought  of  the  gun 

Within  hand's  reach ;  then  put  the  thought 

Out  of  his  mind  to  let  another  in : 

Something  he  must  have  heard  or  maybe  read 

Concerning  music  and  the  savage  breast. 

So  to  his  song  again,  and  to  the  last 

Lewd  notes  of  it.     When  he  looked  up,  there  was 

A  windless  stir  in  the  forsythia  trees, 

An  empty  space  where  the  strange  beast  had  been, 

And  nothing  else  changed  from  an  hour  ago. 

The  moon  went  through  a  twisted  apple  tree 

That  leaned  its  crooked  length  against  the  sky. 

A  log  snapped  in  the  stove,  reminding  him 

That  he  had  meant  to  bring  some  kindling  in 

And  that  it  must  be  late  and  he  was  cold. 

He  watched  the  moon  a  moment,  shut  the  door; 

Tried  all  the  window-locks  again,  pulled  down 

The  shades,  blew  out  the  light  and  clomped  upstairs. 


CARL  SANDBURG 

CONSIDERS   IT   ON    STATE    STREET,    CHICAGO,    ILL. 

Take  it  from  me, 

When  the  cops  are  gone  and  the  long  barrels  of  the 

Remingtons  are  only  a  long  smear  of  rust, 
When  the  guns  of  France  and  the  arrows  of  Rome 

Are  part  of  the  red  mud, 
When  the  chilled  steel  rots, 

The  lovers  will  rise  .    .    .   from  the  dusk  ...  in 
the  new  grass. 

Take  it  from  me, 

When  New  York  is  corn  for  the  huskers,  and  Pekin 

and  Hamburg  are  mixed  with  the  dust  of 

Daunia, 
When  the  gray  wolf  prowls  in  the  jungle  that  used 

to  be  Main  Street, 
The  lovers  will   sing  ...  in  the  dusk  ...  in 

the  new  grass. 

Believe  me  or  not,  Danny, 

Iron  won't  help  and  the  sword  will  be  softer  than 

virtue. 

You'll  know,  some  day,  I  said  a  mouthful, 
When  a  young  star  winks  at  you  through  a  cobweb 
32 


Carl  Sandburg  33 

And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  are  put  out  of  business. 
When  the  old  moon  stands  still  and  the  earth  is 

rammed  into  silence, 

Take  it  from  me, 
The  lovers  will  laugh   ...  in  the  dusk  ...  in 

the  new  grass.  .    .    . 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

IS   HALF-CAUSTIC,    HALF-CRYPTIC   ABOUT   IT 

Horatius  Flaccus,  child  of  fate, 

Was  honest  as  the  fabled  farmer ; 
His  gentle  virtues  held  him  strait 

As  though  they  were  a  suit  of  armor. 
His  guileless  spirit  always  hid 
What   ruder  natures   went   and   did, 
And  all  he  knew  of  ways  forbid 
Was  kept  from  every  charmer. 

Careless  of  this  or  that  mischance, 

He  walked  the  outskirts  daily; 
Convinced  that  each  fell  circumstance 

Would  somehow  meet  him  gaily. 
So  that  he  watched  with  half  a  yawn 
A  brute  upon  his  new-cut  lawn, 
A  hairy  sort  of  devil's  spawn, 
Red-eyed  and  almost  scaly. 

The  creature  stretched  unearthly  jaws; 

Hell  opened  to  affright  him. 
But  Flaccus,  holding  to  the  laws 

Of  what  could  not  excite  him, 

34 


Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  35 

Followed  a  path  direct  and  long, 
Continuing  to  shape  his  song; 
"  The  man,"  it  went,  "  who  knows  no  wrong 
Is  armed "   ...   ad  infinitum. 

And  with  this  bland,  incurious  faith 

He  passed  a  calm  existence; 
Having,  for  all  the  ghosts,  no  wraith 

Of  question  or  resistance; 
Held  to  a  bright  security, 
Like  sunlight  on  a  fallen  tree, 
Or  voices  rising  from  the  sea, 

Waking  a  moonlit  distance. 


AMY  LOWELL 

GROWS   POLYPHONICALLY   PROSY   CONSIDERING  IT 

North,  South,  East,  West,  there  is  no  rest  for  a 
man  save  he  has  something  stronger  than  arrows  or 
a  narrow  shield  to  guard  him.  Hard  are  the  envious 
blows  of  critics,  a  multitude  of  foes,  but  harder  still 
are  the  mind  and  will  of  the  man  who  has  fought  dis 
tortion  for  a  span  of  years.  Fears  are  not  his  por 
tion;  his  life,  squandered  so  soon,  goes  to  the  tune 
of  Blood  and  Honey. 

Blood  and  Honey!  It  sings  in  the  glittering  sands 
of  the  Hydaspes.  Blood  and  Honey!  It  rings 
through  the  bitter  lands  of  Caucasus  and  skirts  the 
chrome-yellow  Syrtes,  rambling  along  its  bramble- 
covered  sides.  Blood  and  Honey!  It  glides  and 
swings  its  flame-colored  notes  against  the  polished 
throats  of  Canterbury  bells ;  swells  and  spills  its 
lavish  rhythms  over  daffodils  and  squills.  The  lilies 
with  breasts  of  alabaster  and  hearts  of  snow  tremble 
and  glow  among  the  asters,  japonica,  larkspur,  and 
sword-shaped  iris-leaves.  The  pattern  weaves  and 
interweaves.  Blood  and  Honey! 

In  the  heart  of  a  wood, 
One  man  is  faced  by  a  wolf. 
He  pauses  and  stares — 
Stopped  by  the  torture  of  a  blood-shot  sun, 
36 


Amy  Lowell  37 

Held  by  the  mauve  and  cobalt  clattering  in  the  west. 

He  hesitates   .    .    .   then  sings. 

Dragonflies  dart  about  him, 

Like  multi-colored  arrows; 

An  iris — or  is  it  a  butterfly? — 

Opens  and  closes  its  leaf-like  wings; 

Plum-blossoms  settle  on  his  shoulders, 

Crystals  of  fragrant  snow ; 

The  sky  is  lacquered  with  lilac  and  red. 

The  song  ascends. 

And  with  it  rises  an  enameled  moon  .    .   . 

In  the  heart  of  a  wood 

One  man  is  singing  alone. 

And  still  he  sings !  Carried  on  fantastic  wings,  his 
passion  seeps  through  the  earth,  sweeps  over  water, 
leaps  through  the  air.  Everywhere  its  echoes  wake 
laughter  and  unrest  in  a  thousand  breasts.  It  never 
stops,  but  drops  of  its  music  fall  like  the  tinkle  of 
pearls  in  a  silver  pan.  Sweetly-smiling,  sweetly- 
prattling  girls  rattle  their  bracelets  and  keep  beguiling 
man  with  snatches  of  its  magic.  Its  beauty  catches 
one  by  the  heart,  the  throat.  It  floats,  like  ivory  surf 
on  the  curved  tops  of  waves,  into  each  dusty  corner 
of  the  years.  One  hears  it  going  on  ...  on  ...  it 
never  veers  .  .  .  Straight  on  it  goes,  stopped  by  no 
gate ;  it  knows  no  bars.  On  ...  on  ...  push 
ing  against  the  pointed  stars  .  .  .  Crushing  out  wars 
and  hate  .  .  On  .  .  on  . 


THE  IMAGISTS 

MAKE  WHAT  THEY   CAN   OF  IT 

Listen, 

Aristius  Fuscus; 

it  is  not  the  quiver 

bursting  with  arrows, 

nor  sudden  spears, 

nor  certainly  the  warmth  of 

confident  armor 

that  shields 

a  man  .    .    . 

Here  is  a  wood 

full  of  blue  winds 

and  dead  symbols; 

full  of  white  sounds, 

hints  out  of  China, 

and  clashing  invisible  flowers  , 

Why  should  I  tremble? 

Now  let  me  pause  .    .    . 
now  let  me  sing  of  you, 
plangent  and  conquering  .    .    . 
with  furious  hair, 
green  and  impalpable  features, 
and   fluent   caresses   .    .    . 
38 


The  Imagists  39 

why  should  I  tremble, 

and  stammer 

like  moonlight 

caught  on  black  branches  .    .    . 

Now  like  a  fish 

in  the  net  of  to-morrow 

let  my  heart  batten 

on  the  thought  of  your  face; 

let  my  soul  feed 

on  the  red  rind  of  passion, 

softly   .    .    .   exulting. 

Out  of  the  hush 
of  the  arches  of  night, 
from  the  core  of  despair 
let  me  remember 
climate  and  javelins, 
laughter  and  Lalage, 
virtue  and  wolves  .    .    . 
And  so  forth  .    .    . 

Et  cetera 


CONRAD  AIKEN  &  T.  S.  ELIOT 

COLLABORATE    UPON    IT 

It  is  late,  says  Fenris,  and  the  evening  trembles 

Like  jelly  placed  upon  an  old  man's  table. 

It  is  late,  he  says,  and  I  am  scarcely  able 

To  keep  my  collar  up,  attend  the  latest  play, 

Mumble  stale  gossip ;  cough  and  turn  away ; 

Grope  in  confusion  down  an  endless  hall. 

The  evening  drags  .   .   .  and  why  should  I  dissemble? 

I  am  tired,  I  tell  you,  tired  of  it  all   ... 

The  heavy  dawns,  the  dying  fall 

Of  music  ending  in  a  cloud  of  gray. 

Virtue  is  ashes;  mist  and  fog 

Cover  the  worm-eaten  trees.     A  block  away 

Some  one  is  singing  tunes  to  a  mangy  dog. 

A  thin  light  tops  the  sky  like  a  moldy  crust. 

And  should  I  read  a  paper,  smoke  a  pipe, 

While  the  full  moon  hangs  like  an  overripe 

Pippin  upon  the  rotted  branch  of  day? 

Twilight  and  sodden  rain  .   .   .  boredom  and  lust  .  .   . 

It  is  like  a  piece  I  used  to  play   .    .    . 

[What  were  the  lines?  ...  I  dream  ...  I  cannot 

say  ... 

The  harlot's  laugh  has  a  coating  of  rust  .    .    . 

40 


Conrad  Aiken  &  T.  S.  Eliot          41 

There  was  a  bow  .    .    .  and  javelins  .    .    .  some  one 

said 

Juba   ...   or  was  it  Lalage   ...   I   forget. 
I  am  tired,  I  tell  you,  tired   .    .    .   and  yet 
How  shall  I  force  the  ineffectual  crisis? 
The  air  is  poisoned  with  a  delicate  regret. 
In  the  Copley-Plaza  men  are  serving  ices. 
I  fidget  in  my  seat,  pull  down  my  vest: 
Adjust  my  new  cravat  and  chatter,  while 
Death  slides  among  the  dancers,  strokes  a  breast, 
Rattles  the  xylophone,  slinks  down  the  hall 
And  pares  an  apple  with  a  weary  smile. 
The  music  twists  and  curves   ...   an  alley  cat 
Adds  its  high  tenor;  wan,  malignant,  flat. 
A  siren  echoes   .    .    .   Can  I  have  no  rest? 
For  I  am  tired  .   .   .  tired  of  the  strident  brawl  .   .   . 
Tired  of  ennui  .    .    .  tired  of  it  all  ... 
Silence  is  better  than  the  twice-expressed. 
In  countless  volumes  new  leaves  turn  and  fall  .    .    . 
I  have  seen  them  all  .        .1  have  seen  them  all. 


FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 

TREATS    IT    FAMILIARLY 


Fuscus,  old  top,  an  honest  phiz 

Fears  no  police-court's  shameful  durance; 
The  guy  who's  square — his  virtue  is 
His  life  insurance. 


He's  playing  safe.     He  wears  his  grin 

Alike  in  Brooklyn  or  Tahiti, 
In  Murky  Michigan  or  in 

This  well-known  city. 

Why,  once  when  I  had  lost  my  way 

A  wolf  espied  and  almost  clutched  me; 
I  merely  sang  a  tune — and  say, 
He  never  touched  me. 


And  such  a  wolf !    It  seemed  at  least 

A  dozen  to  your  Uncle  Horace : 
As  Terence  said,  it  was  some  beast! 
Believe  me,  Mawruss. 
42 


Franklin  P.  Adams  43 

Since  then  I've  strayed  without  a  pang 
Wherever  f  -  -  kle  Fo  -  -  une  bore  me ; 
No  foes  came  near  whene'er  I  sang — 
They  fled  before  me. 


So,  as  a  lyric  Q.  E.  D. — 

When  this  here  planet's  "  dry  " — and  tearful, 
Keep  singing.   .    .    .   That's  my  recipe? 
You  said  an  earful. 


IRVING  BERLIN 

JAZZES   IT   UP   IN   RAGTIME 

Mister  Horace,  won't  you  come  and  sit  with  me ; 
Play  a  tune  that's  made  an  awful  hit  with  me. 
Go  and  get  your  fiddle ; 

Rosin  up  your  bow; 
Here's  a  little  riddle 
That  I'd  like  to  know. 

£* 

Tell  me  why  your  music  makes  me  feel  so  good; 

Cheers  up  everybody  in  the  neighborhood. 
I  ain't  never  worried; 

Gee!    I'm  awful  strong 
For  the  grass  and  cows  and  chickens, 
And  my  heart  beats  like  the  dickens 

When  I  hear  you  singing  that  song. 

Chorus: 
Play  me  that  Integer  Vitae  Rag; 

(It  gives  me  joy.) 
Lose  your  blues  and  go  on  a  musical  jag. 

(Oh  boy!) 

It's  the  latest,  greatest,  sort  of  new  sensation, 
Watch  your  step !    There's  pep  in  this  here  syncopation. 
Don't  it  beat  creation  how  it  hits  you  with  a  slam! 

(My  honey  lamb!) 
44 


Irving  Berlin  45 

So  play  that  mysterious,  serious  drag; 

(Oh  mister  please!) 
I'd  get  delirious  if  it  should  weary  us  and  lag — 

(I'm  on  my  knees.) 

Take  my  rings  and  other  things,  my  socks  or  nightie, 
If  you'll  only  play  that  flighty,  Gosh  Almighty, 

Highty-tighty, 

Integer  Vitey 
Ra-hag ! 


OTHER  ODES 


"ON  WITH  THE  DANCE!" 

Quid  bellicosus  .    .    .     Book  II:  Ode  n 

Why  all  these  questions  that  worry  and  weary  us? 

Let's  drop  the  serious  role  for  a  while. 
Youth,  with  smooth  cheeks,  will  be  laughing  behind  us ; 

Age  will  not  mind  us;  the  cynic — he'll  smile. 

Come,  for  the  gray  hairs  already  are  fretting  us; 

Girls  are  forgetting  us.     Lord,  how  we've  got! 
Come,  let's  convince  them  our  blood  is — well,  red  yet. 

We  are  not  dead  yet.    Let's  show  them  we're  not ! 

Yes,  we'll  have  cups  till  you  can't  keep  a  count  of 
them ; 

Any  amount  of  them — hundreds,  at  least. 
I'll  have  the  table  all  tempting  and  tidy — 

And  we'll  get  Lyde  to  come  to  the  feast! 


"TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS  .   .   ." 

Quid  fles,  Asterie  .   .   .      Book  III:  Ode  7 

Why  are  you  weeping  for  Gyges  ? 

Your  lover,  though  absent,  is  true. 
As  soon  as  warm  weather  obliges, 
He'll  come  back  to  you. 

At  Oricus,  snow-bound  and  grieving, 

He  yearns  for  domestic  delights. 
He  longs  for  the  moment  of  leaving; 
He  lies  awake  nights. 

His  hostess,  a  lady  of  fashion, 

Is  trying  to  fan  up  a  few 
Stray  flames  of  his  fiery  passion, 
Lit  only  for  you. 

With  sighs  and  suggestive  romances 

She  does  what  a  sorceress  can. 
But  Gyges — he  scorns  her  advances; 
The  noble  young  man. 

But  you — how  about  your  bold  neighbor? 

Does  he  please  your  still  lachrymose  eye? 
When  he  gallops  past,  flashing  his  saber, 
Do  you  watch  him  go  by? 
50 


"Tears,  Idle  Tears  ..."  51 

When  he  swims,  like  a  god,  down  the  river, 

Do  you  dry  the  perpetual  tear? 
Does  your  heart  give  the  least,  little  quiver? 
Be  careful,  my  dear. 

Be  warned,  and  be  deaf  to  his  pleadings; 

To  all  of  his  questions  be  mute. 
Do  not  heed  any  soft  intercedings 
That  rise  from  his  flute. 

Lock  up  when  the  day  has  departed, 

Though  the  music  grows  plaintive  or  shrill. 
And  though  he  may  call  you  hard-hearted, 
Be  obdurate  still! 


GROWING  OLD  DISGRACEFULLY 

Uxor  pauperis  Ibyci  .   .   .     Book  III:  Ode  15 

B.C.  35 

Wife  of  poor  Ibycus,  listen;  a  word  with  you. 

How  can  you  seem  so  outrageously  gay? 
Think  of  your  age!     It  is  sad  and  absurd,  with  you 
Acting  this  way. 

Truly,  old  lady,  it's  time  that  you  ceased  all  this; 

Here,  with  young  girls,  you  should  never  be  found. 
Stop  those  ridiculous  antics;  at  least  all  this 
Running  around. 

It's  all  very  well  for  a  kitten  like  Pholoe 

To  smile  at  the  lads  who  repay  her  in  kind, 
But   when   you   approach   them,   they   rapidly   stroll 
away — 

Lord,  are  you  blind! 

Strange,  you  won't  see  that  the  thing  which  delights 

a  man 

Is  always  the  dancer  and  seldom  the  dance; 
A  Thyiad  with  white  hair  and  wrinkles  affrights  a 
man; 

He  looks  askance. 
52 


Growing  Old  Disgracefully  53 

Roses  and  romance  and  wine-jars  are  not  for  you; 

There  is  the  loom  and  the  raw  wool  to  comb, 
Mending  and  baking  and — oh,  there's  a  lot  for  you 
Right  here  at  home! 

A.D.  1919 
You  are  old,  Mrs.  Ibycus,  wrinkled  and  old, 

And  still  you  are  going  the  pace; 
Your  actions  are  scandalous.     Really,  I'm  told 

They  know  you  all  over  the  place. 

You  doll  yourself  up  like  a  girl  of  sixteen, 

You  tango  from  morning  to  night; 
You   wear  out  your  partners,   you   primp  and  you 
preen — 

"  Do  you  think,  at  your  age,  it  is  right?  " 

You  run  after  boys  that  are  just  out  of  school; 

You  trot  with  your  daughter's  young  men; 
Forgetting  that  chickens  may  do,  as  a  rule, 

What's  forbidden  a  silly  old  hen. 

Oh  rub  off  the  rouge  of  your  giddy  career, 
And  send  back  your  drinks  to  the  bar; 

"  The  home  is  the  sphere  for  a  woman,"  my  dear, 
— When  the  woman's  as  old  as  you  are. 


THE  TEASING  OF  XANTHIAS 

Ne  sit  ancillae  .   .    .     Book  II:  Ode  4 

You  never  need  blush,  since  your  love  for  a  hand-maid, 
Friend  Xanthias,  is  known  to — well,  more  than  a 

few. 

Conceal  it  no  more.  Here's  a  girl  who  is  planned,  made 
And  fashioned  for  you. 

Briseis,  the  slave-girl,  with  tints  like  the  lily's, 

Her  body  a  mingling  of  fire  and  snow, 
Enraptured  the  noble  and  haughty  Achilles — 
A  thing  that  you  know. 


And  Ajax,  the  fearless  and  well-known  defter, 

Was  snared  by  Tecmessa,  the  modest  and  grave; 
Though  he  was  a  lord  who  could  surely  look  higher, 
And  she  was  his  slave. 


And  as  for  your  Phyllis  who  scorns  your  sesterces, 

Her  family  tree  may  be  broad  as  an  oak's. 
Her  people,  Fm  sure,  though  upset  by  reverses, 
Were  eminent  folks. 
54 


The  Teasing  of  Xanthias 

A  girl  so  devoted,  unlike  any  other 

Your  arm  may  have  had  the  occasion  to  crush, 
Could  never,  believe  me,  be  born  of  a  mother 
For  whom  you  need  blush. 


Her  arms  and  the  turn  of  her  ankles  enthuse  me; 

Her  face  has  the  glamour  that  all  men  adore. 
What!    Jealous?    You  mean  it?    Go  on — you  amuse 
me! 

I'm  forty — and  more. 


A  HAPPY  ENDING 

Donee  gratus  eram  tibi  .   .   .     Book  III:  Ode  9 
HORACE 

Once  (even  twice)  your  arms  to  me  would  cling, 

Before  your  heart  made  various  excursions; 
And  I  was  happier  than  the  happiest  king 
Of  all  the  Persians. 

LYDIA 

So  long  as  I  remained  your  constant  flame, 

I  was  a  proud  and  rather  well-sung  Lydia, 
But  now,  in  spite  of  all  your  precious  fame, 
I'm  glad  I'm  rid  o'  ye. 

HORACE 

Ah  well,  I've  Chloe  for  my  present  queen. 

Her  voice  would  thrill  the  marble  bust  of  Caesar ; 
And  I  would  exit  gladly  from  the  scene 
If  it  would  please  her. 

LYDIA 

And  as  for  me,  with  every  burning  breath, 

I  think  of  Calais,  my  handsome  lover, 
For  him  not  only  would  I  suffer  death, 
But  die  twice  over, 


A  Happy  Ending  57 

HORACE 

What  if  the  old  love  were  to  come  once  more 
With  smiling  face  and  understanding  tacit; 
If  Chloe  went,  and  I'd  unbar  the  door, 
Would  you — er — pass  it? 

LYDIA 

Though  he's  a  star  that's  constant,  fair  and  true, 
And  you're  as  light  as  cork  or  wild  as  fever; 
With  all  your  faults  I'd  live  and  die  with  you, 
You  old  deceiver! 


A  LINGERING  ADIEU 

AS  W.  S.   GILBERT  MIGHT   HAVE  RENDERED  IT 
Vixi  puellis  nuper  idoneus  .   .   .     Book  III:  Ode  26 

As  a  militant  lover 

I've  taken  to  cover; 
The  lyrics  of  love — I  have  sung  them  all. 

My  lutes  and  my  armor 

Will  rouse  not  a  charmer; 
In  the  temple  of  Venus  I've  hung  them  all. 

Though  aging  and  hoary, 

Yet  not  without  glory 
I  entered  Love's  lists  when  he  'sought  me  to; 

Each  maid  I  enraptured, 

I  came,  saw  and  captured — 
And  lo,  this  is  what  it  has  brought  me  to. 

Here,  then,  lay  the  crow-bars; 

The  door  now  needs  no  bars 
That  used  to  be  fastened  so  tight  to  me. 

Lay  down  Cupid's  arrows — 

The  thought  of  them  harrows 
When  girls  are  no  sort  of  delight  to  me. 
58 


A  Lingering  Adieu  59 

Yet,  Goddess,  whose  feelings 

Know  not  the  congealings 
Of  Winter,  the  sting  and  the  clutch  of  it, 

Come  down  where  it's  snowy, 

And  give  this  cold  Chloe 
The  lash — and  a  generous  touch  of  it! 


IT  ALWAYS  HAPPENS 

Albi,  ne  doleas  plus  nimio  memor 
immitis  Glycerae  .    .    .      Book  I:  Ode  33 

Grieve  not  too  much,  my  Albius,  since  Glycera  is  no 

longer 

As  worthy  of  your  constant  love  and  amatory  sighs 
As  in  the  yesterdays,   and   since  a  taller  man  and 

younger, 

Who  once  embraced  her  slender  waist,  seems  fairer 
in  her  eyes. 

Lycoris  of  the  little  brow  loves  Cyrus  unrequited; 

While  he  in  turn  will  madly  burn  for  rustic  Pholoe — 
Yet  shall  Apulian  wolves  with  docile   she-goats  be 

united 

Ere  he  persuade  this  wilful  maid  to  smile  and  turn 
his  way. 

Such  is  the  will  of  Her  who  rules  the  destinies  of 

lovers ; 
For  Cupid's  courts  hold  cruel  sports  when  wanton 

Venus  reigns. 

And  underneath  her  brazen  yoke  one  oftentimes  dis 
covers 

Young  couples  who,  ill-suited  to  each  other,  curse 
their  chains. 

60 


It  Always  Happens  f)i 

Thus  once  the  little  Myrtale,  a  slave-born  girl  and 

lowly, 
As  wild  and  free  as  is  the  sea  beneath  Calabrian 

skies, 
So  captured  me  with  pleasing  ways  I  swore  to  love 

her  solely — 

When  from  the  glade  a  worthier  maid  looked  on 
with  longing  eyes. 


A  STRAIGHT  TIP  TO  ALBIUS 
(THE  SHADE  OF  VILLON  SPEAKS) 

Albi,  ne  doleas  .    .   .     Book  I:  Ode  33 

Stop  being  peeved  about  that  skirt; 

Cut  out  those  maudlin  songs — and  hurry! 
What  if  she  is  a  heartless  flirt? 
You  should  worry ! 

You  know  that  little  low-brow  dame, 

Lycoris — well,  her  eyes  still  glisten 
Only  for  Cyrus  Whatsisname. 

And  he— Well,  listen  .    .    . 

Cyrus,  the  unresponsive  brute, 

To  Pholoe  turns  all  his  wooing; 
But  she — she  doesn't  give  a  hoot; 
There's  nothing  doing. 

She  tells  him,  with  a  tilted  nose, 

Together  goats  and  wolves  will  revel 
Before  she'll  have  him  ...   So  it  goes. 
It  beats  the  devil. 
62 


A  Straight  Tip  to  Albius  63 

Yes,  so  it  goes.    Why,  look  at  me. 

Once  I  was  more  than  happy,  sowing 
Wild  oats  with  Mamselle  Myrtale; 
She  had  me  going. 

And  all  the  while  a  loftier  miss 

Desired  me  ...   I  should  regret  it? 
No,  Albius.    In  a  case  like  this, 
Old  top,  forget  it. 


BARINE,  THE  INCORRIGIBLE 

Vila  si  iuris  .   .   .     Book  II:  Ode  8 

If  only  once  for  every  perjured  oath, 

Each  broken  tryst  and  troth, 
One  punishment,  one  scar,  one  cheek  too  pale, 

One  broken  finger-nail; 

If  but  one  blemish  would  appear  and  grieve  you, 
I  might  believe  you. 

But  in  your  case,  with  every  faithless  vow 

You  sparkle  more  somehow; 
You  go  abroad  to  break,  with  bright  untruth, 

The  hearts  of  all  our  youth; 
You  swear  still  falsely  by  the  gods  above  you — 
And  still  they  love  you! 

Yes,  Venus  gossips  with  her  laughing  crew, 

While  every  Nymph  laughs  too; 
And  even  Cupid,  busy  at  his  art, 

Pointing  the  fiery  dart, 
In  spite  of  all  his  labors  pauses  nightly, 
And  chuckles  lightly. 
64 


Barine,  the  Incorrigible  65 

Beguiled  by  you  the  lad  grows  up  your  slave, 

Freed  only  by  the  grave. 
And  though  he  leaves  you,  though  the  new-wed 

spouse 

Forsakes  your  godless  house, 
He  comes  back  pleading  at  your  doors  for  mercy — 
Light-hearted  Circe! 


HORACE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 

Extremum  Tanain  si  biberes  .   .   .    Book  III:  Ode  10 

Your  husband  is  stern  and  you're  adamant,  Lyce, 

Oh  yes,  there  is  not  the  least  doubt  of  it. 
But  open  the  door,  for  the  weather  is  icy; 
Let  me  in  out  of  it. 

Oh,  cruel  you  are  to  behold  me,  unweeping, 

All  huddled  and  drenched  like  a  rabbit  here; 
Exposed  to  the  pitiless  snow  and  the  sweeping 
Winds  that  inhabit  here. 

The  blast,  like  the  sharpest  of  knives,  cuts  between 

us — 

Ah,  will  you  rejoice  if  I  freeze  to  death? 
Come,  put  off  the  pride  that  is  hateful  to  Venus; 
Come,  ere  I  sneeze  to  death! 

Yoar  sire  was  a  Tuscan — may  Hercules  club  me 

Or  crush  out  my  life  like  a  mellow  pea — 
But  who  in  Gehenna  are  you  that  you  snub  me? 
You're  no  Penelope! 
66 


Horace  Loses  His  Temper  67 

Forgive  me.     I  know  that  I  rail  like  a  peasant, — 

But,  won't  you  be  more  than  a  friend  to  me? 
Won't  tears  and  my  prayers — and  the  costliest  present 
Make  you  unbend  to  me? 


Once  more  I  implore ;  give  my  pleadings  a  fresh  hold ; 
My  soul  in  its  torment  still  screams  to  you   .    .    . 
What?     Think  you   I'll  lie  down  and  die  on  your 
threshold? 

Good  Night!    And  bad  dreams  to  you! 


A  GRACEFUL  EVASION 

Scriberis  Vario  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  6 

Some  other  bard,  Vipsanius,  less  wedded  to  his  slavery, 
Some  lyricist   like  Varius   with   a   more  Homeric 

touch, 

Shall  celebrate  your  victories,  belligerence  and  brav 
ery, 

Shall  sing  about  your  leadership,  your  strategy  and 
such. 

But  I,  dear  general,  such  as  I  who  could  not  think  an 

Odyssey, 
Can  no  more  sing  your  martial  deeds  than  tell  the 

burning  tale 

Of  Troy  or  shrewd  Ulysses  when,  deserted  by  a  god 
dess,  he 
Defied  the  sea  heroically  with  half  a  tattered  sail. 

I  know  my  limitations  and — this  is  no  mock  humility — 
My  lyre  balks  at  thundering  themes  and  other  war 
like  lures ; 

Its  pleasant  lilt,  its  fluent  grace,  its  rhythmical  facility 
Would  only  serve  to  dull  the  edge  of  Caesar's  fame 
— and  yours. 

68 


A  Graceful  Evasion  69 

The  deeds  of  Mars  and  Diomed  and  other  ancient 

gory  ones, 
Are  not  for  him  who  lacks  the  voice  although  he  has 

the  will. 

The  battles  I  immortalize  are  chiefly  amatory  ones, 
The  wars,  the  struggles  waged  with  arms  that  wound 
but  never  kill. 


TO  CHLOE 

Vitas  inuleo  me  similis,  Chloe,  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  23 

Though  all  your  charms  in  a  sweet  disarray, 
Chloe,  have  won  me,  you  shun  me  as  though 

I  were  a  tiger  that  searches  for  prey, 
I  would  not  hurt  you,  your  virtue  is  so 

Glowing  that  passion  is  melted  away. 

As  a  lost  fawn,  wandered  far  as  it  could, 
Starts  at  the  breezes  and  freezes  with  fear 

At  the  least  sound  from  the  ground  where  it  stood; 
Flies  and  escapes  from  the  shapes  that  appear 

And  the  whispering  leaves  in  the  murmurous  wood, 

So  you  evade  me,  my  Chloe,  and  you 
Daily  dissemble;  you  tremble  when  I, 

Singing  your  loveliness,  tell  what  is  true; 
And,  should  I  hold  you  or  scold  you,  you  fly 

Out  of  my  arms,  like  a  bird  to  the  blue! 

I  seek  you  and  capture  the  ghost  of  a  scent; 

Though  I  pursue  you,  I  woo  you  in  vain. 
Come,  nights  like  these  for  dim  courtships  were  meant, 

When  Love  sings,  half -breathless,  the  deathless  re 
frain, 
When  dark  willows  call  and  the  night-wind  is  spent. 


TO  CHLOE  AGAIN 

Vitas  inuleo  me  similis,  Chloe,  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  23 

You  shun  me,  Chloe,  like  a  fawn 

That,  frightened,  seeks  its  timorous  mother, 
Running  this  way  and  the  other, 

When  familiar  paths  are  gone; 

Starting  at  the  lightest  breeze, 
Or  a  bush  stirred  by  a  lizard, 
Or  when  Spring,  the  gentle  wizard, 
Trembles  in  her  knees. 

Chloe,  do  not  fear  me  so — 

I  am  not  a  beast  to  scare  you, 

Not  a  lion  that  would  tear  you; 
Do  not  treat  me  as  a  foe. 
Chloe,  leave  your  mother's  side; 

Come,  you  are  a  child  no  longer. 

Make  your  faint  desires  stronger — 
Be  a  bride. 


"  THE  FEMALE  OF  THE  SPECIES  " 

Non  vides  quanta  .   .   .     Book  III:  Ode  20 

Have  you  ever  robbed  a  lioness  of  just  one  tiny  whelp? 

Have  you  ever  felt  the  power  of  her  claws? 
Well,  think  of  these,  oh  Pyrrhus,  and  before  you  cry 
for  help, 

Remember  what  a  woman  is — and  pause. 

The  unfair  sex,  the  one  that  is  "  more  deadly  than 

the  male," 

Will  never  leave  unturned  a  single  stone, 
She'll  fight,  she'll  bite,  she'll  scorn  the  rules;  she'll 

make  a  strong  man  pale  .    .    . 
So  you'd  better  let  Nearchus  quite  alone. 

And  meanwhile  this  Nearchus,  the  sweet  and  blushing 

prize, 

Conducts  himself  as  umpire  of  the  fray; 
He  shakes  his  scented  locks;  he  smirks  and  rolls  his 

pretty  eyes —  tat 

A  tired  semi-demi-god  at  play.™ 

Oh  let  her  have  her  perfumed  youth — as  she  is  sure 

to  do, 

Although  she  break  a  Senate-full  of  laws; 
Admit  defeat.    Retreat  from  them — the  virgin  or  the 

shrew. 

Remember  what  a  woman  is — and  pause. 
72 


QUESTIONING  LYDIA 

Lydia,  die,  per  omnis  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  8 

Lydia,  why  do  you  ruin  by  lavishing 
Smiles  upon  Sybaris,  filling  his  eye 

Only  with  love,  and  the  skilfully  ravishing 
Lydia.    Why? 

Ringing  his  voice  was;  above  all  the  clamorous 
Throng  in  the  play-ground  his  own  would  be  high. 

Now  it  is  changed ;  he  is  softened  and  amorous. 
Lydia,  why? 

Once  heNswas  blithe  and,  as  swift  as  a  linnet,  he 
Wrestled  and  swam,  or  on  horse-back  flew  by. 

Now  he  is  dulled  with  this  cursed  femininity — • 
Lydia,  why? 

Yes,  he  is  changed — he  is  moody  and  servile,  he 
Skulks  like  a  coward  and  wishes  to  fly. 

What,  can  you  smile  at  his  acting  so  scurvily, 
Lydia?  .  .  .  Why? 


73 


ETUDE  ON  THE  SAME  THEME 

Lydia,  die,  per  omnis  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  8 

Lydia,  I  conjure  you  by  all  the  gods  above, 

Tell  me  why  you  care  to  try  to  ruin  Sybaris? 
Why  have  you  enraptured  him  and  captured  him  with 

love? 

Why  have  you  inspired  him  and  tired  him  with  a 
kiss? 

Tell  me  why  he  sits  and  sulks,  and  hates  the  sunny 

field? 
He  was  not  one  to  shun  the  sun,  inured  to  dusty 

plains. 
Why  does  he  never  ride  beside  his  troop  with  spear 

and  shield, 

Nor  curb  his  steed  of  Gallic  breed  with  barbed  and 
bitted  reins? 

Why  does  he  dread  the  Tiber's  stream,  and  hate  the 

ringside  oil? 
He  will  not  play;  he  throws  away  the  quoits  and 

javelin. 

No  longer  flushed  with  triumph  does  he  claim  the  vic 
tor's  spoil; 

He  finds  each  game  is  much  too  tame;  he  does  not 
aim  to  win. 

74 


Etude  on  the  Same  Theme  75 

Oh  why  do  martial  exercises  fail  to  bring  him  joy? 
And  tell  me  why  he  languishes  in  anguish  as  they 

say 

Achilles  did  when  he  was  hid  before  the  fall  of  Troy ; 
When  he  appeared  disguised  and  weird  as  though 
he  feared  the  fray. 


THE  PASSING  OF  LYDIA 

Parcius  iunctas  quatiunt  fenestras  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  25 


No  longer  now  do  perfumed  swains  and  merry  wan 
ton  youths 

Come  flocking,  loudly  knocking  at  your  gate; 
No  longer  do  they  rob  your  rest,  or  mar  the  sleep 

that  soothes, 
With  calling, — bawling  love-songs  until  late. 

No  longer  need  you  bar  them  out,  nor  is  your  win 
dow-pane 

Ever  shaken,  now  forsaken  here  you  lie. 
Nevermore   will   lute   strings   woo  you,   nor  your 

lover's  voice  complain, 
"  Tis  a  sin,  dear,  let  me  in,  dear,  or  I  die ! " 

The  little  door  that  used  to  swing  so  gaily  in  and  out, 

Creaks  on  hinges  that  show  tinges  of  decay. 
For  you  are  old,  my  Lydia,  you  are  old  and  rather 

stout ; 

Not  the  sort  to  court  or  sport  with  those  who  play. 
76 


The  Passing  of  Lydla  77 

Oh  now  you  will  bewail  the  daring  insolence  of 

rakes, 

While  you  dally  in  an  alley  with  the  crones; 
And  the  Thracian  wind  goes  howling  down  the  ave 
nues  and  shakes 
Your  old  shutters,  as  it  utters  mocking  moans. 


For  youth  will  always  call  to  youth  and  greet  love 
with  a  will — 

And  Winter,  though  you  tint  her  like  the  Spring, 
Beneath  the  artificial  glow  she  will  be  Winter  still — 

And  who  would  hold  so  cold  and  old  a  thing! 


REVENGE! 

Audivere,  Lyce  .    .    .     Book  IV:  Ode  13 

The  gods  have  heard  me,  Lyce, 
The  gods  have  heard  my  prayer. 

Now  you,  who  were  so  icy, 
Observe  with  cold  despair 
Your  thin  and  snowy  hair. 

Your  cheeks  are  lined  and  sunken; 

Your  smiles  have  turned  to  leers; 
But  still  you  sing,  a  drunken 

Appeal  to  Love,  who  hears 

With  inattentive  ears. 

Young  Chia,  with  her  fluty 

Caressing  voice  compels. 
Love  lives  upon  her  beauty; 

Her  cheeks,  in  which  He  dwells, 

Are  His  fresh  citadels. 

He  saw  the  battered  ruin, 
This  old  and  twisted  tree; 

He  marked  the  scars,  and  flew  in 
Haste  that  He  might  not  see 
Your  torn  senility. 
78 


Revenge!  79 

No  silks,  no  purple  gauzes 

Can  hide  the  lines  that  last. 
Time,  with  his  iron  laws,  is 

Implacable  and  fast. 

You  cannot  cheat  the  past. 

Where  now  are  all  your  subtle 

Disguises  and  your  fair 
Smile  like  a  gleaming  shuttle? 

Your  shining  skin,  your  rare 

Beauty  half-breathless — where? 

Only  excelled  by  Cinara, 

Your  loveliness  ranked  high. 
You  even  seemed  the  winner,  a 

Victor  as  years  went  by, 

And  she  was  first  to  die. 

But  now — the  young  men  lightly 

Laugh  at  your  wrinkled  brow. 
The  torch  that  burned  so  brightly 

Is  only  ashes  now ; 

A  charred  and  blackened  bough. 


BY  WAY  OF  PERSUASION 

(WITH  GENUFLECTIONS  TO  F.  P.  A.) 
Est  mihi  nonum  super antis  annum  .   .   .     Book  IV:  Ode  n 

Here,  Phyllis,  I've  a  jar  of  Alban  wine, 

Made  of  the  choicest  grapes  that  one  can  gather. 
Vintage?    I'll  say  its  years  are  more  than  nine. 
Inviting?  .    .    .   Rather. 

And  that's  not  all  our  well-known  festive  cheer — 
There's  ivy  in  the  yard,  and  heaps  of  parsley. 
Come,  twine  some  in  your  hair — and  look,  old  dear, 
Don't  do  it  sparsely. 

The  flat's  all  ready  for  the  sacrifice; 
In  every  corner  handy  to  display  it, 
There's  silver.     Yes,  the  house  looks  extra  nice, 
If  I  do  say  it. 

The  flame  has  started  trembling,  and  the  smoke 
Goes  whirling  upward  with  an  eager  rustling; 
The  household's  overrun  with  busy  folk. 
Just  see  them  hustling! 

What's  that?    You  want  to  know  the  cause  of  this? 
Why,  it's  the  birthday  of  old  friend  Maecenas; 
And  doubly  dear  because  the  season  is 
Sacred  to  Venus. 
80 


The  Way  of  Persuasion  8 1 

Some  holiday?     I'll  tell  the  world  that's  right! 

And — well,  my  Latin  heart  and  soul  are  in  it. 
Therefore  I  hope  you'll  be  on  hand  to-night. 
Eh?  .    .    .  Just  a  minute. 

Telephus?     Pah!     He  isn't  worth  a  thought. 

If  Telly  dares  neglect  you,  dear,  why,  let  him! 
He's  nothing  but  a  giddy  good-for-naught — 
Come  and  forget  him. 

Come,  and  permit  your  grief  to  be  assuaged ; 
Forsake  this  flirt  on  whom  you  have  your  heart  set. 
Besides,  Dame  Rumor  hath  it  he's  engaged — 
("One  of  our  smart  set") 

From  hopes  that  fly  too  high  and  reckless  dreams, 

The  doom  of  Phaeton's  enough  to  scare  you  .  .  . 
.This  is — ahem — my  favorite  of  themes; 
But,  dear,  I  spare  you. 

Come  then,  so  that  the  evening  may  not  lack 

Your  voice,  that  makes  each  heart  a  willing  rover ; 
And,  as  we  sing,  black  Care  will  grow  less  black — 
Oh,  come  on  over. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE 

Miserarum  est  .    .    .     Book  III:  Ode  12 

Alas,  poor  little  maids  who  droop  and  pine. 
Neither  are  you  allowed  to  wear  Love's  crown 

Nor  drown 
Your  sorrow  in  sweet  wine. 

For  ah,  one  learns  to  dread  the  family  tongue; 
The  lashings  of  an  uncle  or  an  aunt, 

One  can't 
Defy,  however  young. 

Yet — there's  a  certain  robber  steals  away 
Your  thoughts  and  busy  needles;  yes,  I  find 

Your  mind 
Is  not  cast  down,  but  gay! 

Ah  well,  we're  young,  so  I  have  heard,  but  once — 
And  Hebrus  is  a  more  than  lucky  man ; 

He  can 
Call  himself  blessed,  the  dunce. 

But  wait — Hebrus  can  hunt;  his  eye  is  true;     • 
He  rides  and  runs;  he  plants  a  well-aimed  blow. 

And  so 
Perhaps  you're  lucky  too! 


82 


"  HE  WHO  LAUGHS  LAST—" 

Nox  erat  et  caelo  .    .    .     Epode  15 

It  was  the  very  noon  of  night, 

The  stars  were  softly  shining; 
And  radiant  in  the  amorous  light, 

Your  arms  about  me  twining, 
You  swore,  "  While  tempests  goad  the  seas, 
While  wolf  and  sheep  are  enemies, 
I  will  be  yours,  though  Hades  freeze 

And  Heaven  starts  declining." 

Oh  fair  but  still  more  fickle  love, 

Oh  beautiful  and  blind  one, 
You  are  a  maid  unworthy  of 

A  lover  and  a  kind  one. 
Think  you  that  Horace  will  give  place 
To  him  now  wrapped  in  your  embrace? 
Nay,  he  will  seek  a  fairer  face 

And,  bless  you,  he  will  find  one. 

And  as  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 

Who  views  my  plight  with  laughter, 

So  wealthy  that  his  granary 
Is  filled  from  pit  to  rafter, 

He  in  his  turn,  as  I  of  old, 

Will  watch  your  love  grow  strangely  cold. 

And  all  of  this  I  shall  behold — 
And  smile  in  silence  after. 
83 


TO  PYRRHA 

Quis  multa  gracilis  te  puer  in  rosa 

perfusus  liquidis  urget  odoribus 

grato,  Pyrrha,  sub  antro?    Book  I:  Ode  5 

What   dainty,   perfume-scented  youth,   whenever   he 

proposes, 

Caresses  you,  oh  Pyrrha,  in  a  pleasant  grot  and  fair ; 
For  whom  do  you  reveal  your  charms  among  a  thou 
sand  roses? 

For  whom  do  you  bedew  your  eyes  and  bind  your 
shining  hair? 

Alas,  how  soon  shall  he  deplore  your  perfidy,  when 

lonely 

He  shall  behold  the  altered  gods,  invisible  to  us, 
Who  now  believes  you  his  alone  and  who  enjoys  you 

only, 

Who  hopes  (so  credulous  is  he)  things  will  be  al 
ways  thus. 

Oh  woe  to  those,  the  luckless  ones,  who  cling  to  you, 

not  knowing 
Your   faithlessness   and   folly — and   to   whom   you 

seem  so  fair. 

Lo,  on  the  wall  of  Neptune's  temple  is  a  tablet  showing 
My  votive  offering  tendered  to  the  Sea-God  with  a 
prayer. 

84 


THE  FICKLE  LYDIA 

Cum  tu  Lydia,  Telephi 

cervicem  roseam,  cerea  Telephi  ,    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  13 

When  you,  my  Lydia,  praise  the  charms 

Of  Telephus,  and  mark  with  pride 
His  rosy  neck  and  waxen  arms, 

My  bitterness  I  cannot  hide. 

My  color,  like  the  restless  tide, 
Rises  in  sudden  wrath — and  oh, 

The  jealous  tears  of  love  denied 
My  agonizing  torments  show. 

Nor  can  I  see  without  a  tear 

Your  shoulders,  scarred  in  Love's  fierce  play ; 
Nor  look  upon  those  lips  for  fear 

He,  in  his  brutal  passion,  may 

Have  marred  the  smile  outshining  day. 
Your  heart  he  rudely  set  astir, 

And  stole  the  best  of  life  away 
From  me,  whose  earth  and  sky  you  were. 

Oh  leave  him;  you  will  never  find 
A  lasting  love  in  passion's  rage. 
Love  should  be  gentle,  tender,  kind; 
85 


86  The  Fickle  Lydia 

Love  should  give  comfort,  and  assuage 
The  storms  and  ravages  of  age. 

Such  love  is  mine,  that  lives  to  be 
Written  in  glory  on  the  page 

Whose  words  reflect  eternity. 


A  BURLESQUE  RONDO 

Cum  tu,  Lydia,  Telephi 

cervicem  roseam,  cerea  Telephi  .    .    .  Book  I:  Ode  13 

Cum  tu,  Lydia  .    .    .  You  know  the  rest- 
Praising  the  waxen  arms  and  breast 

Of  Telephus  you  drove  me  mad. 

You  made  the  sunniest  moments  sad, 
While  tortures  racked  my  heaving  chest. 

Oh,  I  could  see  you  softly  dressed, 
Inciting  him  with  amorous  zest; 

And  hear  you  whisper  low,  "  My  lad, 
Come  to  Lydia." 

Now  you  repent  .    .    .  Your  arms  protest 
That  they  have  been  too  roughly  pressed. 
Oh  gain  your  senses ;  leave  the  cad, 
And  heed  me  as  again  I  add: 
Awake!    Love  is  no  giddy  jest. 
Come  to !    Lydia ! 


87 


AN  APPEAL 

(IN    RICHARD    LE   GALLIENNE's    MOST    LIMPID    MANNER) 

Mater  saeve  Cupidinum 

Thebanaeque  iubet  me  Semelae  puer  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  19 

Mother  of  Cupids  grown  callous  and  cruel, 
Young  Dionysus  with  Pleasure's  bright  train, 

Why  do  ye  heap  the  faint  flames  with  new  fuel, 
Why  are  my  pulses  on  fire  again? 
Why  this  new  joy  and  this  exquisite  pain? 

Glycera,  she  who  in  brightness  surpasses 
Parian  marble,  whose  lips  have  undone 

Me  with  their  petulant  laughter — what  lass  is 
Dazzling  as  she  is,  whose  face  is  the  sun! 
Aye,  'tis  to  her  that  my  fantasies  run. 

Now  neither  war  nor  its  wild  wonder  fires  me ; 

I  cannot  sing  of  the  Parthian  in  flight. 
Softly  I  chant,  for  when  Venus  inspires  me, 

Love  is  the  one  theme  in  which  I  delight; 

Love  is  the  music  for  mid-day  and  night. 

Come,  lads,  and  place  on  this  turf  as  an  altar, 
Vervains  and  vessels  of  two-year-old  wine. 

Here  shall  I  pray  and  with  incense  exalt  her. 
Then,  when  the  sacrifice  glows  on  the  shrine, 
She,  being  kinder,  may  come  and  be  mine. 


ODE  AGAINST  ANGER 

O  matre  pulchra  filia  pulchrior 
quern  criminosis  cumque  voles  modum 
pones  iambis.     Book  I:  Ode  16 

So  my  random  rhymes  displeased  you, 
Loveliest  of  ladies ;  how 

Wroth  you  are — to  be  appeased  you 
Crave  for  vengeance,  and  your  brow 
Clouds  with  reddening  anger  now. 

Take  the  verses  rude,  erratic, 

(Which  were  never  meant  to  pain) 

Drown  them  in  the  Adriatic; 

Burn  them,  strew  them  o'er  the  plain- 
Only  do  not  frown  again. 

Baleful  anger,  what  can  stay  it? 

Neither  flame  nor  sword  nor  sea. 
Jove  himself  can  not  dismay  it; 

It  is  powerful  as  he 

In  its  potent  tyranny. 

When  Prometheus  dared  to  fashion 
Man,  by  mingling  worst  and  best 

Of  each  beast,  he  took  the  passion 
Of  the  raging  lion  and  pressed 
Anger  in  the  human  breast. 
89 


90  Ode  Against  Anger 

Rage  is  herald  to  perdition; 
At  its  blast  the  city  falls. 

Armies  suffer  demolition, 

While  the  foe,  whom  naught  appals, 
Drives  his  plowshares  through  the  walls, 

Clear  your  forehead.    Anger  frantic 
Works  but  ill,  and  fiercer  than 

Storms  and  tumults  Corybantic 
Is  the  savage  wrath  of  man. 
Curb  it,  lady,  when  you  can. 

I  myself,  when  young,  was  given 
To  the  swift  iambic  verse 

And,  with  reckless  ardor  driven, 
I  would  often  intersperse 
Satires  with  a  careless  curse. 

Now  I  turn  to  dull  excuses — 

Come  and  be  my  friend  once  more. 

I  recant  my  rhymed  abuses, 
Hoping  that  you  will  restore 
Your  affection  ...  as  before. 


MUTINY 

lam  veris  comites  .   .   .     Book  IV:  Ode  12 

Spring's  mild  companion  calms  the  seas, 
The  wind  blows  up  from  Thrace ; 

The  huddled  hills  that  used  to  freeze 
Shake  off  the  cold  embrace. 

The  seedling  stirs ;  the  roots  are  squirming ; 

And  every  bird  is  early-worming. 

On  soft  young  grass,  the  fattening  sheep 

Are  tended  by  musicians 
Who  do  their  best  to  pipe  and  leap 

According  to  traditions, 
And  chant  their  vernal  panegyric 
As  shepherds  do  in  every  lyric. 

"  The  year's  at  "—well,  the  thirsting  time : 

The  trees  suck  up  their  sap; 
The  sun  drinks  on  his  lengthening  climb; 

The  wine  of  love's  on  tap. 
The  earth's  one  sparkling  ebullition  .    .    . 
This  is  no  place  for  prohibition! 


92  Mutiny 

Come  and  forget  the  parching  laws ; 

Away  with  dry  excuses! 
You  shall  espouse  a  heavenly  Cause 

With  more  than  earthly  juices! 
Their  genial  glow  shall  make  it  warmer 
For  you — and  any  chance  informer. 

Come,  for  these  interdicted  jars 

Will  droop  until  you've  kissed  'em; 

Come  and  behold  more  brilliant  stars 
Than  in  the  solar  system. 

Fools  keep  to  wisdom  in  these  glum  times; 

The  wiser  man  forgets  it — sometimes. 


HOLIDAY 

Festo  quid  potius  die  .   .   .    Book  III:  Ode  28 

What  celebration  should  there  be?  .    .   . 

Quick,  Lyde,  bring  a  jar! 
Against  a  dull  sobriety 

We'll  wage  a  lusty  war. 

The  festive  sun  is  setting  low, 

The  dusk  is  almost  there; 
And  yet  you  scarcely  move,  as  though 

We  both  had  time  to  spare! 

Let's  pour  the  wine  and  sing  in  turns 

Of  Neptune  in  his  lair, 
Of  mermaids  in  the  water-ferns, 

And  of  their  sea-green  hair. 

And  you,  upon  your  curving  lyre, 

Shall  spend  a  tuneful  hour, 
Singing  Diana's  darts  of  fire 

And  her  benignant  power. 

Hymns  shall  arise  to  Her  who  sends 

Fresh  laughter  and  delight, 
Until  our  weary  singing  ends 

In  lullabies  to  night. 
93 


TO  A  FAUN 

Faune,  Nympharum  .   .   .    Book  III:  Ode  18 

You  sprightly  mischief  dancing  by, 
As  you  pursue  the  nymphs  that  fly 

From  your  embraces, 
Run  lightly  through  my  garden  plot, 
Respect  the  flower-beds  that  dot 

My  favorite  places; 

Avoiding  please  the  early  peas  while  going 
through  your  paces. 

Be  gentle  to  the  pigs  and  sows, 

The  horses,  chickens,  ducks  and  cows; 

Pray,  don't  alarm  them. 
And  treat  each  tender,  youngling  kid 
With  comradeship,  as  if  you  did 

Not  want  to  harm  them. 

They'll  frisk  and  how  their  heads  will  bow  if 
you  should  pass  and  charm  them! 

For  you  there  shall  be  sacrificed 

The  herd's  unblemished,  highest-priced 

And  best  example. 

Incense  shall  cloud  the  festive  shrine 
And  there  shall  be  great  bowls  of  wine 

For  you  to  sample — 

Providing  all  the  while,  of  course,  my  grounds 
you  do  not  trample. 
94 


To  a  Faun  95 

And  now,  to  celebrate  your  day, 
Cattle  romp  and  shepherds  play 
For  flocks  to  gambol. 
The  world  throws  off  its  sordid  shams 
And  no  one  works  while  wolf  ^and  lambs 

Together  amble. 

The  village  goes  to  tear  its  clothes  on  rustic 
bush  and  bramble. 

The  town  turns  out,  a  giddy  rout: 
Lodger,  landlord,  lover,  lout, 
Prince  and  pastor. 
While  laborers  who  dig  or  till, 
Dance  with  passion,  leaping  still 

Higher,  faster. 

Striking  the  earth,  their  enemy,  to  show  they 
are  its  master! 


AFTERMATH 

Intermissa,  Venus  .   .   .    Book  IV:  Ode  i 

Venus,  I  pray,  do  not  flay  me  or  tear  me  now ; 

Why  should  you  rouse  me  to  passion  again  ? 
I  am  too  old  to  let  Cupid  ensnare  me  now; 

See,  there  are  hundreds  of  likelier  men. 
Spare  me,  oh  spare  me  now ! 

Venus,  go  otherwhere;  pass  on  and  pardon  me; 

I  am  no  longer  the  man  that  I  was. 
Thoughts  of  poor  Cynara  rise  like  a  guard  on  me, 

These  and  my  fiftieth  year  make  me  pause — 
Do  not  be  hard  on  me. 

Young  Paulus  Maximus,  he  is  the  man  for  you ; 

High-born  and  fair,  with  an  eloquent  turn. 
He  is  the  sort  who  will  do  all  he  can  for  you ; 

Altars  he'll  raise  to  you,  incense  he'll  burn; 
Fires  he'll  fan  for  you. 

Sweetly  the  smoke  of  his  worship  will  rise  to  you, 

And,  twice  a  day,  nimble  feet  will  advance — 
Maidens  and  boys,  as  a  pleasant  surprise  to  you, 
Beating  the  ground  in  the  Salian  dance, 
While  the  heart  flies  to  you  .    .    . 
96 


Aftermath  97 

Yes,  I  have  altered.  The  sighs  and  alarms  for  me, 

Little  indeed  do  I  think  of  them  now. 
Wine-cups   and    drinking-bouts — these   have   no 

charms  for  me ; 

I  crave  no  flowers  to  bind  on  my  brow, 
No,  nor  soft  arms  for  me. 

But — what  is  this!    Can  you  tell,  Ligurine  dear, 
Why  in  my  dreams  do  our  hands  interclasp? 

Or,  like  a  hunter  in  chase  of  a  shiny  deer, 
Why  do  I  seek  you,  who  fly  from  my  grasp? 
And — why  this  briny  tear? 


RAILING  AT  ICCIUS 

led,  beatis  nunc  Arabum  invides 
gazis  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  29 

Oh  Iccius,  now  you  would  possess 
Arabian  wealth  and  foreign  treasures, 

And  so  you  have  prepared  to  press 

Decisive  war  against — no  less 

Than  those  dread  Saban  kings ;  confess 

These  are  impulsive  measures. 
Now  you  are  fashioning  with  speed 
Chains  for  the  formidable  Mede! 

What  virgin,  what  barbarian  fair, 

When  you  have  slain  her  lord  and  lover, 
Will  be  your  slave?    With  perfumed  hair, 
What  stripling  from  the  court  will  bear 
The  golden  cups  of  wine;  and  there, 
To  keep  you  safely  under  cover, 
Will  guard  you  well  from  every  foe 
With  arrows  from  his  father's  bow? 

Oh  rivers  now  may  run  uphill, 

And  Tiber's  course  become  erratic, 
If  for  Iberian  arms  you  will 
Exchange  your  philosophic  skill, 
98 


Railing  at  Iccius  99 

Panaetius'  works,  and  those  that  fill 

Your  library  Socratic  .    .    . 
Alas,  your  faithful  friends,  though  few, 
Expected  better  things  of  you. 


PANTOUM  OF  PROCRASTINATION 

Mollis  inertia  .    .    .     Epode  14 

Why  this  inertia,  you  ask, 
Sensing  my  mental  disorder. 

Why  don't  I  finish  the  task, 
Writing  a  poem  to  order? 

Sensing  my  mental  disorder, 

Seeing  the  way  I  put  off 
Writing  a  poem  to  order, 

I  do  not  wonder  you  scoff. 

Seeing  the  way  I  put  off, 

(Laugh  as  you  will,  doubting  Thomas) 
I  do  not  wonder  you  scoff — 

Yet  there's  a  reason,  I  promise. 

Laugh  as  you  will,  doubting  Thomas, 
I  will  not  ask  you  to  pause. 

Yet — there's  a  reason,  I  promise — 
A  god,  and  a  small  one's  the  cause. 

I  will  not  ask  you  to  pause 
Here  in  my  comfortless  hour; 

A  god,  and  a  small  one's  the  cause — 
Yes,  you  yourself  know  his  power. 

100 


Pantoum  of  Procrastination          ttii 

Here,  in  my  comfortless  hour, 

Cupid  plays  tricks  with  my  voice. 

Yes,  you  yourself  know  his  power, 
Only — you've  cause  to  rejoice. 

Cupid  plays  tricks  with  my  voice; 

Jeers  at  the  poem's  beginning — 
Only  you've  cause  to  rejoice, 

Your  love  is  faithful  and  winning. 

Jeers  at  the  poem's  beginning  .    .    . 

"  Why  don't  I  finish  the  task?  " 
Your  love  is  faithful  and  winning. 

"Why  this  inertia?"  .    .    .  You  ask! 


HORACE  EXPLAINS 

Martiis  caelebs  .   .   .     Book  III:  Ode  8 

Why,  you  ask,  this  festive  raiment,  why  the  bright 

regalia  ? 

Why  the  smoking  censer  and  the  decorated  urn? 
Why  should  I,  a  bachelor,  observe  the  Matronalia? 
Ah,  my  friend  Maecenas,  you  have  something  still 
to  learn. 

Many  years  ago  to-day,  before  I  was  your  laureate, 
I  lay  beneath  a  branch  and  thought  of  nothing  much 

at  all ; 
To  be  precise,  I  think  I  scanned  the  latest  Snappy 

Storiette, 

When  suddenly  the  senseless  tree  made  up  its  mind 
to  fall. 

Pinned  upon  the  rocky  ground  I  spent  a  far  from  jolly 

day. 
"  Help !  "  I  cried,  at  intervals  from  one  o'clock  to 

eight. 
There  and  then  I  swore  to  keep  this  date  a  sacred 

holiday 
If,  I  added  tearfully,  I  live  to  celebrate. 

IO8 


Horace  Explains  103 

So  let's  keep  the  oath  I  made  with  reverence  and  piety. 
Here's  a  cask  of  Caecuban  to  nurse  me  back  to 

health. 

Let  the  city's  counselors  grow  sodden  with  sobriety  ; 
Here's   a   richer   business   and   a  greater   common 
wealth. 

Come  then,  my  Maecenas,  bring  the  sunshine  of  your 

presence  here. 
Toast  your  friend's  recovery  and  wish  him  many 

more. 

Join  me  in  a  happy,  not  too  rapid  convalescence  here. 
Carpe  diem  .    .    .  But  you've  heard  the  rest  of  this 
before. 


AN  INVITATION 

Velox  amoenum  saepe  Lucretilem  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  17 

From  Grecian  pine  and  precipice 

The  nimble  Faunus  often  strays, 
And  here,  beside  Lucretilis, 
He  lingers  for  a  space  of  days. 
Here  he  will  keep 
My  goats  and  sheep 
From  chilling  winds  and  Summer's  blaze. 

For  hidden  strawberries  and  thyme 
The  women  seek  in  safety  here; 
While  sportive  kids  undaunted  climb 
The  mountain-side  without  a  fear 
Of  wolves  or  snakes, 
When  Faunus  makes 
Sweet  music  to  delight  the  ear. 

Aye,  all  the  gods  are  good  to  me, 

And  shielded  by  their  gifts  I  dwell; 
They  love  me  for  my  piety, 

And  all  my  songs  have  pleased  them  well. 
Sweet  is  my  rest 
For  I  am  blest 

With  bounties  more  than  I  can  tell. 
104 


An  Invitation  105 

Come  hither.     In  this  cool  retreat 

You  too  shall  share  this  treasure  trove. 
Here  shall  you  flee  the  dog-star's  heat; 
Here  shall  you  learn  how,  torn  with  love, 
Penelope 
In  rivalry 
With  Circe  for  a  lover  strove. 

Here  shall  you  drink  from  Grecian  jars 

Mild  Lesbian  wine,  still  sweet  and  warm, 
Nor  fear  that  Bacchus  clash  with  Mars, 
Nor  savage  Cyrus  do  you  harm. 
So  come,  my  friend, 
With  me  and  spend 
Some  days  upon  the  Sabine  farm. 


WINTER  PIECE 

Fides  ut  alta  stet  nive  candidum 
Soracte  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  9 

Shrouded  with  ice  and  snow 
Soracte  stands  in  splendor. 
The  rivers  freeze;  the  slender 

Branches  are  weighted  low. 

Oh  Thaliarchus  mine, 
Come,  set  the  fagots  flaming 
And  then,  with  rapt  acclaiming, 

Bring  in  the  Sabine  wine. 

The  rest  leave  to  the  gods 
Who  rule  the  warring  thunders, 
Whose  hands  shape  Life's  deep  wonders 

And  Death's  more  puzzling  odds. 

We  only  live  to-day; 
Youth  knows  no  dull  to-morrow. 
We  who  have  buried  Sorrow 

May  dance  when  we  are  gray. 

Look, — now  the  maidens  seek 
Dim  walks,  and  breathe  soft  whispers 
To  scented  youths,  and  this  spurs 

The  love  that  fears  to  speak. 
106 


Winter  Piece  107 


Coy  smiles  and  feigned  alarms 
The  maiden,  half-resisting, 
Yields  of  a  sudden,  twisting 

The  token  from  her  arms. 

One  hears  a  plaintive  tune; 
A  snatch  of  distant  laughter  .    . 
Vague  murmurs  pass,  and  after 

Is  silence — and  the  moon. 


INVOCATION 

Dianam  tenerae  dicite  virgines  .    .   .     Book  I:  Ode  21 

Maidens  young  and  virgins  tender, 
Sing  Diana  in  her  splendor ; 
Boys  at  play  within  the  hollow, 
Sing  the  flowing-haired  Apollo. 

(Ye  that,  moved  by  love  and  duty, 
Praise  Diana's  holy  beauty, 
Shall  be  granted  joys  unceasing 
And,  perhaps,  a  mate  that's  pleasing.) 

(And  if  winning  words  we  hit  on, 
Phoebus  may  present  the  Briton, 
Persian,  Parthian  and  the  rest,  with 
All  the  wars  and  plagues  we're  blessed  with.) 


108 


THE  PINE  TREE  FOR  DIANA 

Montium  custos  .   .   .     Book  III:  Ode  22 

Oh  virgin  queen  of  mountain-side  and  woodland, 
Blessed  protector  of  young  wives  in  travail, 
Who  snatchest  them  from  death  if  thrice  they  call 
thee— 

Goddess  and  guardian; 

To  thee  I  dedicate  this  slender  pine-tree; 
And  each  year  with  a  boar's  blood  I  shall  bless  it — 
A  youngling  boar  just  dreaming  of  his  first  thrust, 
Savage  and  sidelong. 


109 


A  PLEASANT  VOYAGE  FOR  MAEVIUS 

Mala  soluta  .   .   .     Epode  10 

Under  an  evil  star  she  slips, 

Accompanied  by  my  hate; 
She  reels,  unluckiest  of  ships, 

With  him,  her  stinking  freight. 

Do  not  forget,  O  southwest  wind, 
To  lash  her  sides  with  waves, 

Till  Maevius  sees,  before,  behind, 
Nothing  but  yawning  graves. 

Litter  the  sea,  till  on  it  lie 
These  oars  and  tattered  ropes ; 

And  make  the  breakers  tower  as  high 
As  mountains  on  his  hopes. 

Let  not  one  friendly  star  appear, 

Let  even  days  be  dark; 
So  that  he'll  fare  as  calm  and  clear 

— As  Ajax'  impious  bark! 
no 


A  Pleasant  Voyage  for  Maevius     ill 

Ah,  how  the  mariners  will  sweat! 

How  Maevius  will  pale! 
As  weeping,  woman-like  and  wet, 

He  prays  to  stop  the  gale. 


I  too  shall  pray!    And  if  a  rock 
Receive  his  mangled  form, 

The  choicest  ewe-lamb  of  the  flock 
I'll  offer  to  the  storm. 


SIMPLICITY 

Persicos  odi,  puer  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  38 

The  diversions  of  the  Persians  with  their  ostentatious 
ways 

Do  not  thrill  me,  for  they  fill  me  with  disdain; 
I  abominate  the  dominating  style  of  coarse  displays, 

And  from  garlands  brought  from  far  lands  I  refrain. 

But  the  myrtle  plain  and  fertile  you  may  bind  around 

your  brow, 

And  in  future  let  it  suit  your  taste  like  mine. 
Come,  my  fervent  little  servant,  you  may  place  it  on 

me  now, 
As  with  wine  here  I  recline  here  near  the  vine. 


1 12 


VICTORIAN  SIMPLICITY 

(A   LA   ANDREW   LANG) 

I  do  not  love  this  pomp  and  pride 
Extolled  by  Persians  magnified 

With  self-esteem ;  and  to  my  taste 

The  linden  chaplets  interlaced 
With  roses  should  be  cast  aside. 

Seek  not  the  place  where  these  abide; 
Those  perfumed  robes  and  wreaths  applied 
With  brilliant  gauds  and  gems  misplaced, 
I  do  not  love. 

But  bring  the  jars;  beneath  the  wide, 
Green  mantle  of  these  boughs  I'll  hide. 
Come,  bind  my  brow  with  myrtle  chaste 
And  bring — oh,  anything — but  haste! 
For  there's  no  wine  I  ever  tried 
I  do  not  love. 


113 


NEAPOLITAN  SIMPLICITY 

(T.  A.  DALY  PUTS  IT  IN  HIS  FAVORITE  DIALECT) 

My  frand,  I  am  seeck,  an'  I  talla  you  w'at, 
Dees  grandness,  eet  maka  me — w'at  you  call — hot! 
See,  roses  an'  ribbons  all  ovra  da  place; 
I  tal  you,  my  frand,  eet  ees  bigga  deesgrace. 

Oh  my !  soocha  f ooleeshness  geeve  me  a  pain. 
Com'  back  to  Italians  sweetness  again ! 
An'  Rosa,  weeth  myrtle-leaves  steeck  'een  her  hair, 
Gon'  breeng  da  Chianti  for  dreenk  weeth  us  dere. 


114 


SEDITIOUS  SONG  AGAINST  PROHIBITION 

(WITH  AN  INTERPOLATED  AND  WHOLLY  AD  LIB.  CHORUS ) 
O  nata  mecum  .    .    .     Book  III:  Ode  21 

I 

When  Manlius   was  consul,   when  you   and   I   were 

young, 

This  ancient  wine  was  born  of  precious  juices; 
Of  Caecuban  and  Massic  grapes,  of  various  and  classic 

grapes, 
'Twas  made  for  happy  days  and  noble  uses. 

CHORUS 

So  wine,  wine,  wine  till  the  planets  reel  and  fall; 
Yellow  wine  and  mellow  wine  or  any  wine  at  all. 
The  happy  earth  has  put  her  mirth  and  courage  in  the 

vine; 
And  Love  and  Laughter  follow  after  wine. 

II 

So  highly  do  we  prize  it  that  no  man  dare  despise  it, 
Though  cynical  he  may  be  or  Socratic. 

They  say  that  even  Cato  old  declared  it  ne'er  too  late 

to  hold 
A  cup  of  wine  to  make  the  heart  ecstatic. 

CHORUS 

So  winet  wine,  wine,  etc. 
«5 


n6    Seditious  Song  Against  Prohibition 

in 

For  wine's  divine  emulsion  creates  a  sweet  compulsion, 
It  lifts  the  weak  above  complaint  or  pity; 

It  makes  him  raise  his  horn  again  and  Hope  and 

Strength  are  born  again — 
It  turns  the  witty  wise,  the  wise  man  witty! 

CHORUS 
So  wine,  wine,  wine,  etc. 

IV 

It  rids  the  soul  of  languor,  of  sorrow,  fear  and  anger ; 

While  Bacchus  joins  the  feast  to  make  it  splendid. 
And  Venus  and  the  Graces  hear  our  songs  and  take 
their  places  here, 

With  night-long  lamps  until  the  revel's  ended. 

CHORUS 

So  wine,  wine,  wine  till  the  planets  reel  and  fall; 
Yellow  wine  and  mellow  wine  or  any  wine  at  all. 
The  happy  earth  has  put  her  mirth  and  courage  in 

the  wine; 
And  Love  and  Laughter  follow  after  wine! 


HORACE,  TEMPERANCE  ADVOCATE 

Nullam,  Vare,  sacra  <vite  prius  sevens  arborem  .   .   . 

Book  I:  Ode  18 

When  you  start  your  planting,  Varus, 
Let  your  first  thought  be  the  vine; 

Knowing  how  its  powers  spare  us 
When  our  cares  and  doubts  combine, 

Knowing  how  the  fears  that  snare  us 
Vanish  with  the  use  of  wine. 

Wine  is  cheering  and  sustaining; 

Thoughts  of  harm  and  dreams  of  war 
In  the  cups  that  we  are  draining 

Fade  away  and,  as  we  pour 
Wine  anew,  our  cares  are  waning — • 

Poverty  is  felt  no  more. 

Yet  with  all  your  deep  potations, 
Check  the  overpowering  thirst; 

Do  not  quaff  with  wild  impatience — 
Moderate  your  passion  first. 

Bear  in  mind  the  brutal  Thracians, 
Even  by  great  Pan  accursed. 
117 


Ii8       Horace,  Temperance  Advocate 

When  their  passions  have  been  fired, 
Armed  with  wine  and  roused  with  song, 

They  will  fight  as  if  inspired 
With  mad  fury,  and  ere  long 

Gain  the  thing  that  they  desired, 
Caring  naught  for  right  or  wrong. 

Never  will  I  rouse  thee,  Bacchus, 
'Gainst  thy  will  as  in  the  past. 

Cease  thy  cymbals,  then,  that  rack  us; 
Hush  thy  trumpets'  brazen  blast, 

For  they  make  false  Pride  attack  us 
And  the  Faith  that  does  not  last. 


TRITE  TRIOLETS 

Tu  ne  quaesieris  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  u 

Ask  not — what  does  it  matter — 

How  long  we're  going  to  live; 
The  fortune-teller's  patter 
Ask  not.    What  does  it  matter 
If  Jove  has  years  to  scatter 

Or  only  one  to  give?  .    .    . 
Ask  not.     What  does  it  matter 
How  long  we're  going  to  live ! 

Oh  friend,  trust  no  to-morrow, 
But  seize  the  flying  present. 

Would  you  escape  all  sorrow, 

Oh  friend?    Trust  no  to-morrow! 

Drink  deep,  and  do  not  borrow 
One  thought  that  isn't  pleasant. 

Oh  friend,  trust  no  to-morrow, 
But  seize  the  flying  present. 


119 


ON  PRIDE,  POSITION,  POWER,  ETC. 

Nullus  argento  color  est  .   .   .     Book  II:  Ode  2 

Silver  hidden  in  the  mine 

Does  not  shine. 

Though  no  soul  on  earth  refuse  it, 

Gold  grows  either  bright  or  sordid 
By  the  way  a  man  may  use  it; 

It  grows  dull  when  hoarded. 
All  the  coins  a  miser  owns 
Might  as  well  be  stones. 

He  rules  with  power  over  pelf 

Who  rules  himself. 

Libyan  shores  and  Carthaginian, 

Realms  whose  length  may  well  dismay  us, 
Who  conquers  Greed  has  such  dominion — 

Look  at  Proculeius. 
All  the  years  the  gods  may  give, 
Deeds  like  his  outlive. 

What's  a  title,  what's  a  crown? 
Virtue  laughs  them  down. 
And  to  him  alone  she  offers 

Wreaths  and  things  that  grow  no  older 

120 


On  Pride,  Position,  Power,  Etc.      121 

Who  can  gaze  on  golden  coffers, 
Gaze — and  shrug  his  shoulder. 
The  happy  man  wants  no  one's  throne— 
He  has  his  own! 


THE  GOLDEN  MEAN 

Rectlus  vives  .   .   .     Book  II:  Ode  10 

Licinius,  here's  a  recipe 

To  keep  you  from  undue  commotion, 
Remember  that  the  shore  can  be 

As  treacherous  as  the  depths  of  ocean : 

The  man  who  loves  the  golden  mean, 

Avoids  the  squalor  of  a  hovel; 
And  scorns  the  palaces,  serene 

Above  the  envious  ones  who  grovel. 

It  is  the  giant  pine  that  creaks, 
It  is  the  tallest  towers  that  tumble; 

And  it  is  on  the  mountain  peaks 

That  lightnings  strike  and  heavens  crumble. 

The  heart  forearmed,  when  times  are  drear, 
Hopes  for  the  best,  and  in  fair  weather 

Allows  itself  an  hour  of  fear — 
It  takes  the  good  and  bad  together. 

Be  patient  then,  and  reef  your  sails ; 

Equip  your  courage  with  endurance. 
Thus  shall  you  meet  the  roaring  gales 

With  laughing  wisdom  and  assurance. 

122 


CIVIL  WAR 

Quo,  quo  scelesti  ruitis?  .   .   .     Epode  7 

Why  do  ye  rush,  oh  wicked  folk, 

To  a  fresh  war? 
Again  the  cries,  the  sword,  the  smoke — 

What  for? 


Has  not  sufficient  precious  blood 
Been  fiercely  shed? 

Must  ye  spill  more  until  ye  flood 
The  dead? 


Not  even  armed  in  rivalry 

Your  hate's  employed ; 
But  'gainst  yourselves  until  ye  be 

Destroyed ! 

Even  when  beasts  slay  beasts,  they  kill 

Some  other  kind. 
Can  it  be  madness  makes  ye  still 

So  blind? 

123 


124  Civil  War 

Make  answer!    Is  your  conscience  numb? 

Each  ashy  face 
Admits,  with  silent  lips,  the  dumb 

Disgrace. 


Murder  of  brothers!    Of  all  crime, 

Vilest  and  worst! 
Pause — lest  ye  be,  through  all  of  time, 

Accursed. 


LUGUBRIOUS  VILLANELLE  OF  PLATITUDES 

Eheu  fugaces,  Postume  .    .    .     Book  II:  Ode  14 

Ah  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by ; 
Old  age  with  hurrying  footsteps  draws  nearer  day 
by  day ; 

And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friend 
lier  tie. 

Soon  Death,  whose  strength  is  never  spent,  whose 

sword  is  always  high, 
Will  beckon  us,  and  all  our  faith  will  win  us  no 

delay. 
Ah  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by. 

Grim  Pluto  waits  for  all  of  us;  he  waits  with  pitiless 

eye, 

Until  we  journey  down  the  stream  that  carries  us 
away; 

And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friend 
lier  tie. 

Though  we  be  kings  or  worse  than  slaves,  the  eager 

moments  fly; 
Though  we  be  purer  than  the  gods,  Time  will  not 

halt  or  stay — 

Ah  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by. 

125 


126     Lugubrious  Villanelle  of  Platitudes 

Aye,  we  must  go,  though  we  have  shunned  the  red  sun 

of  July, 

The  bitter  winds,  the  treacherous  surf,  the  blind  and 
savage  fray, 

And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friend 
lier  tie. 

Too  soon  the  stubborn  hand  of  Fate  tears  all  our 

dreams  awry; 
Too  soon  the  plowman  quits  his  plow,  the  child 

his  happy,  play — 

Ah  Postumus,  my  Postumus,  the  years  are  slipping  by, 
And  we  will  leave  this  friendly  earth  and  every  friend 
lier  tie. 


AN  INFAMOUS  RENDERING 

(The  Parentheses  and  Italics  being  the  Translator's) 
O  fans  Bandusiae  .    .   .      Book  III:  Ode  13 

Bandusian  Spring,  I've  known  thee  long       (in  various 

translations) 

And  now  at  last  I  sing  of  thee;       (with  anything  but 

patience) 

Worthy  of   wine  and   flowers,       (like   a   hackneyed 

"Hymn  to  Victory") 

Brilliant  as  glass.       (A  metaphor  both  trite  and  con 
tradictory.) 

To-morrow  shall  a  kid   be  thine,       (a  spring  with 

butchered  goats  on  it!) 

His  blood  shall  dye  thy  crystal  stream ;       (and  Horace 

simply  gloats  on  it.) 

On  thee  the  dog-star's  hour  of  rage       (that  part  was 

never  clear  to  me) 

Shall  lay  no  hand.       (In  fact  this  ode,  though  famed, 

is  far  from  dear  to  me.) 

Thou  givest  freely  of  thy  wealth       (a  feeling  I  don't 

share  at  all) 

To  all  who  seek  thy  cooling  side;       (yet,  somehow, 

I  don't  care  at  all) 
127 


128  An  Infamous  Rendering 

The  bull  that's  wearied  of  the  plow,       ("and  1,  for 

one,  don't  blame  him";) 

The  sheep  that's  strayed.       (And,  entre  nous,  the  fox 

that's  sure  to  claim  him.) 

Thou  too  shalt  rank  with  famous  founts,       (you  note 

how  Horace  hates  himself) 

For  I  shall  be  thy  laureate;       (thus  modestly  he  rates 

himself;) 

I  will  immortalize  thy  rocks,       (and  now  the  light 

that  glowed  is  dun) 

Thy  babbling  streams.       (And,  thank  the  Lord,  the 
babbling  with  this  Ode  is  done!) 


PROLOG  IN  THE  APPROVED  MANNER 
(TO  MAECENAS) 

Maecenas  atavis  edite  regibus  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  i 

Lordly  descendant  of  a  royal  line, 
Whose  love  and  honored  patronage  is  mine, 
Know  you  not  how  the  varied  types  of  men 
Struggle,  each  with  his  own  desires,  and  then 
Count  themselves  kings — yes,  gods  are  not  more 

blessed — 
If  by  some  trick  of  fate  they  pass  the  rest. 

This  man  exults  if  fortune  sweep  him  high 
Where  he  may  swagger  in  the  public  eye ; 
Another  hopes  to  magnify  his  stores 
With  grain  swept  from  the  Libyan  threshing- 
floors. 

He  who  delights  to  till  his  fertile  fields 
Is  most  concerned  with  what  the  farming  yields 
And  would  not  change  for  things  more  hazardous, 
Though  tempted  with  the  wealth  of  Attalus. 
The  merchant,  dreading  winds  and  angry  seas, 
Commends  tranquillity  and  rural  ease; 
Another  one  (you  may  have  heard  of  such) 
Is  not  averse  to  Massic,  and  will  touch 
129 


130    Prolog  in  the  Approved  Manner 

The  lips  of  jars  that  hold  it  while  he  may; 
Draining  and  dreaming  through  the  longest  day. 
One  quaffs  it  lying  by  some  sacred  stream, 
Another  stretched  on  roses  loved  to  dream.  .   .   . 

The  camp,  the  sound  of  trumpets  as  they  blend 
With  clarions  and  cries,  with  wars  that  rend 
A  thousand  mothers'  hearts  with  fresh  despair, 
Are  things  for  which  a  nation  seems  to  care. 
The  huntsman,  deaf  to  his  neglected  spouse, 
Creeps  in  the  cold  and  shuns  his  own  warm  house, 
Whether  by  dogs  a  hart  is  held  to  view, 
Or  some  wild  Marsian  boar  has  broken  through 
The  fine-wrought  net  which  he  has  torn  askew. 

For  me  the  ivy,  emblem  that  I  love, 

Ranks  me  an  equal  with  the  gods  above. 

For  me  the  placid  groves  and  cool  retreats 

Where  never  throngs  disturb  the  woodland  streets, 

But  where  the  Nymphs  and  Satyrs  dancing  light 

Add  a  new  glory  to  the  splendid  night. 

These  will  I  sing  until  my  battered  lute 

Is  still  and  Polyhymnia's  lyre  is  mute. 

Thus  will  I  seek  for  favor  in  your  eyes, 

And  if  with  lyric  bards  you  say  I  rise 

My  head  shall  grow  until  it  scrapes  the  skies. 


SPRING  SUMMONS 

Solvitur  acris  hiems  grata  vice  verts  .    .   .     Book  I :  Ode  4 

When  breezes  kiss  the  lips  of  Spring, 

And  ships  again  at  anchor  ride, 
The  plowman  leaves  his  hearth  to  sing 
And  wander  through  the  countryside, 
Where  daisies  glow 
Like  drifts  of  snow, 
And  fields  below  are  white  and  wide. 

At  night  the  playful  moonbeams  dance 

With  Venus  and  her  rosy  train; 
The  kiss  of  flute  and  lyre  enchants 
The  Nymphs  upon  each  mossy  plain, 
Whose  feet  repeat 
The  rhythmic  beat 
And  help  complete  the  magic  strain. 

Come  then,  this  is  the  joyous  time, 

The  time  beloved  by  god  and  man; 
Awake,  this  is  the  glad  year's  prime; 
Awake  and,  in  the  name  of  Pan, 
Anoint  with  wine 
The  sacred  shrine 
Where  wreaths  entwine  the  gift  we  plan. 


132  Spring  Summons 

Live  well  to-day.    Time  will  not  wait, 
Nor  Death  the  slightest  favor  show 
At  hovel  or  the  castle-gate. 

And  when  thine  hour  striketh — lo, 
The  light  shall  pass   .    .    . 
No  more  the  glass 
Nor  lad  nor  lass  for  thee  shall  glow. 


THE  MODEST  HOST 

Vile  potabis  modicis  Sabinum 
cantharls  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  20 

These  cups  of  mine  are  neither  large  nor  rare, 
My  joys  are  simple ;  humble,  too,  my  fare. 
That  day  the  theater  hailed  thee  with  a  sign 
Of  wildest  welcome,  this  poor  Sabine  wine, 
In  Grecian  casks,  I  did  myself  prepare. 

Yet  though,  my  patron  knight,  thou  mayest  with  prayer 
Extol  the  seasoned  Caecuban  and  swear 
To  touch  no  poorer  wine ;  do  not  decline 
These  cups  of  mine. 

And  though  my  cellar-shelves  are  always  bare 
Of  sweet  Falernian,  and  the  vessels  there 

Contain  weak  juices  that  may  seem  like  brine 
When  tasted  after  vintages  like  thine — 
Come,  dear  Maecenas ;  come,  and  dare  to  share 
These  cups  of  mine. 


133 


THE  WARRIOR  RETURNS 

Et  ture  et  fidibus  iuvat 
placare  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  36 

Now  see  the  sacrifice  leap  up  to  heaven, 

Greeting  the  gods  as  their  vision  is  thrilled ; 
Hear  what  new  songs  to  the  lyre  are  given, 

While  the  warm  blood  of  a  heifer  is  spilled. 
Even  the  dumb  things  their  gladness  are  voicing; 

For  from  the  ultimate  limits  of  Spain 
Numida  comes  to  the  sounds  of  rejoicing, 

Comes  to  his  home  and  his  comrades  again 

Come  then,  bring  the  jars 

Full  of  bubbling  glories; 
Let  us  shake  the  stars 

With  our  songs  and  stories. 
Pour  the  laughing  wine 

Borne  by  this  Liburnian; 
Mix  with  Surrentine, 

Massic  and  Falernian. 

Let  the  jocund  dance 

Cease  not  till  the  morning, 

And  let  wreaths  enhance 
Nature's  own  adorning. 
134 


The  Warrior  Returns  135 

Where  the  parsley  shows, 

Strew  the  daffodilly; 
Lavishing  the  rose 

And  the  short-lived  lily. 

Feast  your  swimming  eyes 

On  this  floral  palace 
And  its  fairest  prize, 

The  divine  Damalis. 
Lo,  how  soft  she  sings 

In  this  leafy  cover, 
And  like  ivy  clings 

To  her  latest  lover  .    .    . 

Now  see  the  sacrifice  leap  up  to  heaven, 

Greeting  the  gods  as  their  vision  is  thrilled; 
Hear  what  new  songs  to  the  lyre  are  given 

While  the  warm  blood  of  a  heifer  is  spilled. 
Even  the  dumb  things  their  gladness  are  voicing; 

For  from  the  ultimate  limits  of  Spain 
Numida  comes  to  the  sounds  of  rejoicing, 

Comes  to  his  home  and  his  comrades  again! 


THE  TOAST 

Natis  in  usum  laetitiae  scyphis 

pugnare  Thracem  est  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  27 

To  brawl  and  quarrel  over  wine 
And,  drugged  with  dissipation, 
To  strike  in  anger,  and  decline 
The  toast  is  rude,  is  base, — in  fine, 
It's  downright  Thracian. 

Let  songs  uncurl  the  scornful  lip; 

Let  verses,  light  or  classic, 
Regale  the  board ;  let  dancers  trip  .    .    . 
Here,  try  these  peacock's  tongues,  and  sip 
This  rare  old  Massic. 

Come,  toast  the  one  that  rules  your  heart; 

A  truce  to  idle  lying. 

Blessed  are  the  wounds  that  ache  and  smart 
When  some  fair  Chloe  speeds  the  dart 
Of  which  you're  dying. 

Who  needs  excuse  his  love  or  make 

Apologies  for  passion? 
The  heavy  bonds  that  none  can  break 
I  weave  in  pleasing  chains ;  so  take 
Yours  in  this  fashion. 
136 


The  Toast  137 

Come  then,  her  name.    What!    Is  it  she?  .    .    . 

Alas,  my  lad,  I  fear  a 
Fate  will  be  yours  none  dare  foresee. 
What  god  can  save  you,  set  you  free 
From  this  chimera! 


CLEOPATRA'S  DEATH 

Nunc  est  vibendum  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  37 

Now  let  us  drink  and  tread  the  earth 

With  dancing  mirth. 
Now,  comrades,  let  us  open  up 

The  rare  wine  stored  away  so  long, 
And  raise,  with  many  a  glowing  cup, 

A  thankful  and  victorious  song. 

A  short  time  since  all  men  had  seen 

The  Ethiop  Queen 
Plotting  to  rule  on  land  and  sea; 

Sending  fresh  ships  on  every  wave, 
To  flood  fair  Rome  with  savagery 

And  turn  the  Empire  to  a  grave. 

But  soon  her  madness  was  dispelled. 

Her  hopes  were  quelled 
When  all  her  ships  went  up  in  flame 
And  Caesar,  giving  swift  pursuit, 
Brought  back  her  reason  as  she  came 
Nearer  the  shores  she  left  to  loot. 
138 


Cleopatra's  Death  139 

Hot  as  the  hunter  out  to  stalk 

The  hare;  or  hawk 
After  a  pigeon,  Caesar  swept 

To  make  his  triumph  greater  still. 
But,  scorning  chains,  she  never  wept 

Or  shrank  from  her  majestic  will. 

She  smiled  at  death  and  dared  to  grasp 

The  deadly  asp. 
Ruined  and  lost,  she  never  mourned; 

She  let  the  poison  have  its  way. 
Unqueened,  she  kept  her  throne,  and  scorned 

To  make  a  Roman  holiday. 


THE  GHOST  OF  ARCHYTAS 
(IN  PROFESSOR  CONINGTON'S  STRICTEST  MANNER) 

Te  marts  et  terrae  numeroque  carentis  arenae  .   .   . 

Book  I:  Ode  28 

A  SAILOR  SPEAKS: 

Oh  you  who  circled  every  sea 

Who  knew  each  mile  of  foreign  strand, 
Oh,  Archytas,  and  can  it  be 

That  for  the  lack  of  grains  of  sand, 

Your  soul  from  Heaven's  realm  is  banned 
To  haunt  the  shore  eternally. 

Aye,  though  in  life  your  spirit  flew 
In  fancy  over  earth  and  sky, 

What  good  was  it,  since  even  you 
Were  doomed  to  die. 

And  thus  did  Pelops'  father  lie — 

He  who  was  Heaven's  favored  guest; 
And  thus  Tithonus  faced  the  sky 
Although  Aurora  loved  him  best; 
And  Minos,  though  he  was  possessed 
Of  Jove's  own  secrets,  lived  to  die. 
Aye,  in  some  bleak  Tartarean  hole, 

The  son  of  Panthous  is  confined — 
Of  what  avail  his  warlike  soul, 
His  noble  mind? 
140 


The  Ghost  of  Archytas  141 

The  selfsame  night  awaits  us  all; 

The  road  of  Death  all  mortals  tread. 
On  fields  of  carnage  many  fall, 

The  sport  and  toy  of  Mars,  the  dread; 

Others  in  ocean  caves  lie  dead. 
For,  in  a  mingled  funeral, 

The  young  and  old  together  lie ; 

No  mortal  cheats  the  fates — not  one; 

Proserpine's  all-watchful  eye 
Is  blind  to  none. 


THE   SHADE   REPLIES  I 

The  South  wind,  warm  Orion's  mate, 

Has  sunk  me  'neath  th'Illyrian  wave, 
And  here  in  this  unhallowed  state 

I  seek  the  comfort  of  a  grave. 

Oh  scatter  sand  on  me  and  save 
My  spirit  ere  it  be  too  late. 

So  shall  your  soul  be  comforted 

And  ne'er  a  wind  shall  do  you  harm, 

But  blessings  be  upon  your  head 
While  you  lie  warm. 

So  shall  you  profit  by  the  winds 

And  reap  what  fortunes  you  may  please; 
For  he  who  has  Jove's  favor  finds 

The  love  of  Neptune  on  the  seas. 

But  do  not  flout  these  obsequies 


142  The  Ghost  of  Archytas 

Or  you  will  blast  your  children's  minds ; 
For  such  a  grave  iniquity 

No  expiation  can  atone  .    .    . 
So  sprinkle  sand  thrice  over  me — 
And  then  begone. 


TO  THE  (ROMAN)  SHIP  OF  STATE 

O  navis,  referent  in  mare  te  no<vi 

fluctusf    O  quid  agis?  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  14 

Proud  Ship,  the  waves  and  winds  conspire 

To  drag  you  back  to  sea. 
O,  gain  the  port  that  we  desire; 

Ride  swiftly,  lest  you  be 

A  hopeless  wreck;  for  even  now 

Devoid  of  oars  you  sail, 
Your  mast  is  bent  and  weak  (a  blow 

Dealt  by  a  foreign  gale). 

And  see  the  signs  that  from  each  spar 

A  dire  destruction  spell : 
Your  sails  in  tattered  ribbons  are 

That  catch  the  breezes'  swell. 

Your  keel  shows  lines  of  swift  decay; 

Your  cables  all  are  bare ; 
No  gods  are  left  to  whom  you  may 

Turn  with  a  frenzied  prayer. 

Of  Pontic  pine,  you  boast,  you  came, 

Reared  in  a  noble  wood; 
Think  you  that  this  will  ever  tame 

The  tempest's  angry  mood? 

143 


144      To  th*   (Roman)  Ship  of  State 

'Tis  little  courage  sailors  find 
In  neatly-painted  boats. 

Beware  then,  lest  the  howling  wind 
Hurls  back  the  boastful  notes. 

Oh,  You  who  are  my  grief  and  care, 
Turn  back  to  calmer  seas. 

Beware,  oh  precious  Ship,  beware 
The  shining  Cyclades. 


TO  MERCURY 

Mercuri,  facunde  nepos  Atlantis  .    .    .     Book  I:  Ode  10 

Bright    grandson    of    old    Atlas,    thrice-eloquent    of 

tongue, 

Who  raised  the  early  races  by  the  graces  of  your  art, 
With  oratory  noble  and  the  splendid  gift  of  song, 
Who  wrought  a  thousand  wonders  and  reformed 
the  savage  heart, 

I  sing  of  you,  light  messenger  of  Jove  and  all  the 

gods — 

The  parent  of  the  lyre  and  the  higher  lord  of  theft ; 
Who  smiles  on  his  disciples,  and  in  spite  of  all  the 

odds, 

Who  seizes  what  he  pleases  and  then  smiles  when 
nothing's  left. 

Once  when  you  were  a  little  boy,  Apollo  in  a  rage, 
(His    oxen    having   vanished   as   though    banished 

from  the  sun) 
Knowing  your  mischiefs,  threatened  you,  not  thinking 

of  your  age, 

Then  of  a  sudden  stopped  and  laughed — his  quiver 
too  had  gone! 


146  To  Mercury 

And  it  was  you  whose  guidance  and  whose  mighty 

power  led 
The  wealthy  Priam  when  he  left  the  many  walls  of 

Troy; 

Deceived  the  sons  of  Atreus  and  saved  his  hoary  head 
By  stealing  through  the  camp  which  Trojans  never 
could  destroy. 

You  are  companion  to  the  soul,  conductor  of  the  dead ; 

The  evil  spirits  cower  at  the  power  of  your  rod; 
The  airy  throngs  to  soft  abodes  eternally  are  led 

By  you,  who  are  the  favorite  of  each  and  every  god. 


TO  VIRGIL 

Quis  desiderio  sit  pudor  aut  modus 
tarn  carl  capitis?  .   .    .      Book  I:  Ode  24 


O  weep  and  wail — there  is  no  shame  in  weeping. 

What  bounds  can  measure  grief  for  one  so  dear? 
Melpomene,  arise,  thy  wild  harp  sweeping 

And  teach  me  songs  of  sadness  and  the  bier. 

And  does  Quintilius  sleep  eternal  slumbers? 

O  Justice,  pious  Modesty,  and  Fear — 
Intrepid  Truth,  though  Life  has  valiant  numbers, 

When  shall  ye  ever  hope  to  find  his  peer? 

Aye,  though  he  died,  amid  a  throng  lamentous, 
By  none,  my  Virgil,  better  wept  than  you, 

In  vain  you  ask  him  back;  he  was  not  lent  us 
On  any  terms  but  what  the  gods  endue. 

Aye,  though  you  strike  the  lyre  with  wilder  sobbing 
And  sweeter  sighs  than  Orpheus  of  Thrace, 

You  cannot  set  one  drop  of  life-blood  throbbing 

Or  bring  one  blush  to  that  poor,  pallid  face. 

147 


148  To  Virgil 

For  Mercury,  impervious  to  stations, 

Cannot  reverse  the  fates  that  placed  him  there ; 

And  though  the  blow  is  deep,  'twill  heal  with 

patience. 
For  what  we  cannot  change  we  learn  to  bear. 


TO  VENUS 

O  Venus,  regina  Cnidi  Paphigue  .   .   .     Book  I:  Ode  30 

Come  Venus,  Cnidian-Paphian  queen, 

Leave  Cyprus  for  a  while, 
And  haste  where  Glycera  may  be  seen 
Invoking  thee  with  incense,  e'en 
To  win  thy  smile. 

Bring  Cupid  and  the  Graces  three 

To  fan  thy  fires, 

Ungirdled  Nymphs,  and  Mercury — 
And  buoyant  Youth  that,  without  thee, 
No  maid  desires. 


149 


TO  HIS  LYRE 


Posdmur.     Si  quid  vacui  sub  umbra 
lusimus  tecum  .    .    .      Book  I:  Ode  32 


Now  we  are  called  upon.    O  lyre, 

If  ever  we  in  secret  here 
Have  sung  one  strain  that  men  admire 

And  may  outlive  the  passing  year, 
I  pray  thee  tune  the  throbbing  wire 

From  which  my  dearest  songs  have  flowed, 
And  let  me  build  for  my  desire 
A  Latin  ode. 

A  Lesbian  poet  showed  us  first 

Thy  passion  and  thy  fluent  power; 
And  in  the  battle's  lust  and  thirst, 

Or  quiet  of  the  calmer  hour, 
He  swept  the  silent  strings ;  he  versed 

The  lovely  Venus  in  her  pride; 
Or  showed  us  Cupid  being  nursed 
Close  at  her  side. 
150 


To  His  Lyre 

He  chanted  Bacchus  wondrously; 

And,  when  the  Muses'  praise  was  sung, 
Extolled  the  black-eyed  Lycus,  he 

Who  was  so  delicate  and  young  .    .    . 
O  thou  who  art  and  e'er  wilt  be 

The  charm  and  the  delight  of  all, 
Come  and  be  gracious  unto  me — 
Answer  the  call. 


TO  APOLLO 

Quid  dedicatum  poscit  Apollinem 
votes f  .   .    .     Book  I:  Ode  31 

Lord  of  all  the  lyrists,  hear  the  poet's  supplication. 

See,  before  the  temple  that  is  hallowed  in  thy  sight, 
From  the  flowing  flagon  I  will  pour  the  first  libation ; 

Phoebus,  Lord  Apollo,  hear  my  fervid  prayer  aright. 

Grant    me    neither    goodly    crops    from    fertile,    far 

Sardinia, 
Nor  the  wealth  of  countless  herds  from  scorched 

Calabrian  strands, 

Ivory  from  Indian  caskets,  gold  from  Carthaginia, 
Nor  the  towns   where   silently  the   Liris   lips  the 
sands. 

Let  the  favored  nobles  who  to  Fortune  are  beholden 
For   their   purple   vineyards   prune   them    with    a 

crooked  knife; 
Let  the  wealthy  merchants  drink  from  goblets  carved 

and  golden; 

Grant  me  but  the  boon  of  living;  let  me  know  the 
strength  of  life. 

152 


To  Apollo  153 

Let  me  walk  unto  the  end,  erect,  with  brow  unclouded  ; 
Let  my  years  be  sonant  with  the  sweeping  of  the 

lyre. 
And,  when  I  am  less  than  dust  and  all  the  urns  are 

shrouded, 
May  the  singing  echo  even  when  the  songs  expire. 


A  COMPLACENT  RONDEAU  REDOUBLE 

Musis  amicus  tristitiam  et  metus 

tradam  proterms  in  mare  .   .   .  *  Book  I:  Ode  26 

The  Muses  love  me,  and  I  am  content, 
For  naught  to  me  is  either  grief  or  fear; 

The  winds  will  sweep  them  into  banishment, 
The  sea  will  drag  them  to  a  briny  bier. 

Let  others  quail  and,  trembling,  force  the  tear, 
And  cringe,  with  looks  that  on  the  ground  are 
bent; 

Let  all  the  angry  powers  of  earth  appear, 
The  Muses  love  me — and  I  am  content. 

What  though  the  days  of  joy  are  only  lent, 
What  though  the  skies  are  overcast  and  drear ; 

I  care  not  if  the  thundering  heavens  be  rent, 
For  naught  to  me  is  either  grief  or  fear. 

Come  then,  bright-hearted  nymph  from  brooklets 
clear, 

A  garland  for  my  Lamia  weave ;  nor  vent 
Thy  proud  disdain  upon  my  verses  here — 

The  winds  will  sweep  them  into  banishment. 


A  Complacent  Rondeau  Redouble     155 

O,  come  with  perfumed  words  from  Venus  sent 
And  twine  a  golden  couplet  for  our  cheer. 

(Mind  not  the  cares  that  mar  our  merriment; 
The  sea  will  drag  them  to  a  briny  bier). 

Attune  my  strings  and  so,  for  many  a  year, 

Singing  of  thee  I  will  be  diligent; 
And  even  when  the  leaves  of  life  are  sere, 

One  thought  will  cheer  me  when  all  else  is  spent : 
The  Muses  love  me. 


HALF  IN  EARNEST 

Exegi  monumentum  acre  perennius  .    .   .     Book  III:  Ode  30 

My  work  is  done,  a  monument  sublime, 

A  thing  outliving  brass ; 
One  that  the  pyramids  cannot  surpass, 
Untouched  by  the  corroding  rains  of  Time. 

The  flight  of  ages,  the  parade  of  years, 

Will  gently  pass  me  by; 
For,  buried  though  I  be,  I  cannot  die — 
I  shall  escape  the  death-bed's  final  fears. 

Fresh  with  each  generation's  lavish  praise 

My  work  and  I  shall  grow, 
Until  at  last  the  world  of  men  will  know 
The  living  magic  of  these  deathless  lays. 

Until  at  last  they  recognize  in  me 

One  of  the  first  to  give 
Soul  to  the  lyric,  stuff  to  make  it  live  .    .   . 
So  come  and  crown  me,  O  Melpomene. 


156 


"  I  CELEBRATE  MYSELF  " 

Non  usitata  nee  tenul  ferar  .   .   .     Book  II:  Ode  20 

Before  I  end  this  glorious  batch 

Of  deathless  verses,  friend  Maecenas, 

I've  something  still  to  add,  to  snatch 
One  laurel  more  to  share  between  us. 

(I  mention  all  of  this  to  no  man 

Except  perhaps  a  friend — or  Roman.) 

Now  that  my  time  has  come  to  die 
(Within  a  score  or  two  of  years) 

I  wish  to  have  it  known  that  I 

Will  gladly  leave  this  vale  of  tears, 

Because  (and  how  my  friends  will  chortle!) 

I  shall  be  more  than  just  immortal. 

Into  the  clear  and  boundless  air 

I  shall  ascend  with  sounding  pinions, 

Shouting  a  buoyant  "  I-don't-care," 

Laughing  at  kings  and  their  dominions. 

And  folks  will  say  (and  well  you  know  it) 

Q.  Flaccus?    Ah,  he  was  a  poet! 
157 


158  "I  Celebrate  Myself" 

My  wings  shall  sprout.     Why,  even  now 
I  feel  all  creepy  and  absurdlike ; 

My  skin  is  roughening  somehow, 
My  legs  are  positively  birdlike. 

And  see — sure  as  I'm  growing  older — 

Feathers  and  quills  on  either  shoulder! 

Thus  shall  I  fly  about  as  long 
As  I've  the  slightest  inclination, 

A  veritable  Bird-of-Song 
Without  a  local  habitation. 

Like  Icarus  I'll  travel  surely 

And  (need  I  say  it?)  more  securely. 

From  where  the  Dacian  hides  in  shame 
To  where  the  river  Rhone  runs  muddy, 

All  men  will  celebrate  my  name, 
My  works  will  constitute  a  Study. 

I  shall  be  loved  by  people  pat  in 

The  ways  of  elementary  Latin. 

Then  let  there  be  no  dirge  for  me, 
No  petty  grief  nor  lamentation; 

Why  weep  for  one  who's  sure  to  be 
A  joy  and  honor  to  creation ! 

Ah,  you're  a  lucky  man,  by  Venus, 

To  have  a  friend  like  me,  Maecenas, 


INDEX  OF  THE  ODES 


BOOK   ODE 

PAGE 

I      I   

129 

4  

131 

5  

84 

6  

68 

8  

73,  74 

9  

106 

10   

145 

ii  

9,  "9 

13  

85,  87 

14  

143 

16  

89 

17  

104 

18  

"7 

19  

88 

20   

133 

21   

108 

22   

3-45 

23   

70,  71 

24   

147 

25   

76 

26   

154 

27   

136 

28   

140 

29   

98 

30   

149 

31   

152 

32   

150 

33  

60,  62 

36  

134 

37  

138 

38  

112-114 

BOOK   ODE 

PAGE 

II     2   

120 

4  

54 

8  

64 

10   

122 

ii  

49 

H  

125 

20   

157 

Ill    7  

50 

8  

102 

9  

56 

10   

66 

12   

82 

13   

127 

15   

52,  53 

18  

94 

20  

72 

21   

"5 

22   

109 

26   

58 

28   

93 

30   

156 

IV     I   

96 

II   , 

80 

12   

9i 

13   

78 

Epode  7  

123 

10   

no 

14  

100 

15  

83 

RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  ^      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


•UN  3  01983 


dcirc.  MW  31  1983 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  12/80        BERKELEY  CA  94720 

®$ 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


s 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


